


Son of the Skinwalker

by Jadenite



Series: Past, Present, Future. [1]
Category: Longmire (TV), Walt Longmire Mysteries - Craig Johnson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Historical Aspects, F/M, M/M, Modern!Walt, OldWest!Walt, Skinwalker!Henry, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Young!Walt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 115,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadenite/pseuds/Jadenite
Summary: Howling Wolf, Standing Bear, Henry Mingan…He has had many names. So many that he does not remember them all. In bygones days he was the unwanted Indian among white settlers and the hunted yee naagloshii to his own tribe. This left him no escape but the wild undiscovered places of the western frontier; the isolated dwellings of other darker things than he.Windigo’s, pukwudgies, nightstalkers...he met them all.In all that time, with all those lives? He never once forgothim, the Spirit Boy he met in 1712 by the river and the rock or the squint eyed Sheriff in a little town calledBlack Oak, in the late 1800s. Both humans who were capable of seeing beyond his redskin.When a voodoo priestess of some renown approached him in the French Quarter and told him that the spirit of his blue-eyed sheriff lived again somewhere in Absaroka County? Well, it was not everyday that a man could meet an old friend afresh, for what would appear to one for the first time.He wants to be known even as he fears what his old friend will chance to see lurking in the shadow of his eyes. 165 years is a long time between meetings.*ON HOLD*
Relationships: Henry Standing Bear/OMC, Martha Longmire/Walt Longmire, Walt Longmire/Henry Standing Bear
Series: Past, Present, Future. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938205
Comments: 39
Kudos: 16





	1. Stories My Grandmother Told

**_Cheyenne Reservation, Wyoming : 1982_ **

Grandmother Istas Still Water was telling stories again. Mathias loved to sit at her feet and listen to her speak. It was true Chris and Thomas Lone Elk made fun of him for such enjoying things but it seemed to him only right. Grandmother listened to _him_ when he spoke about winning the basketball game and besting Big Nose -- whose birth name was Jordan, but no one called him that anymore -- at a game of cards. Besides, it was warm and cozy by the fire on the square rug he had claimed for his own; the storms raging breaking against the house in random gusts only enhanced the storytelling atmosphere with its random bangs as the low hanging branches of the Great Sycamore planted alongside the house crashed into the shutters.

The house was not much but it was home. There was a bedroom for his parents and a smaller second bedroom that was his when they did not have over-night guests. And when they _did_ he slept on the drab green couch pushed in front of the fireplace. He did not mind so much; it was both warm and comfortable and certainly better than the hard floor. He minded least of all when he was ousted from his bed for Grandmother and her sparse over night visits. She always spun such stories that they, he and May, could hardly be pried away before the sun rose again.

Grandmother swore to Maheo _, The Great Creator,_ that the stories of their people were as true and accurate as those things referenced in the missionaries Christian gold-edged bibles. Mathias had come into possession of one such pocket-sized bible, which missionaries were known for handing out. Free goods were free goods. He took the pocket-book bible and flipped through the pages when the mood struck, which admittedly was not often. He preferred the stories of his people; those at least did not leave him asleep and drooling into his pillow ushered into early, unsought, slumber. The book came to be his when a missionary had staked out a spot on _the Rez_ next to Old Grey Wolf’s pottery store. Old Man Albert Grey Wolf’s son, Sam Grey Wolf, did not like this. His mouth pulled in a thin straight line of displeasure and his eyes glared darkly but he said nothing. Out of respect to the old man’s wishes he kept the peace.

The newcomer talked loudly to anyone and everyone unlucky enough to pass too closely, a stack of free bibles at his feet. And whenever he had spied someone passing by he hurriedly picked one up and held it out in offering to that person. Many accepted, only to throw them into the trash or kindle to the fires later, because it would have been viewed as rude to refuse a gift. Mathias knew this because Chris and his brother were notorious gossips with a nose for being in the right place at the right time. Or, sometimes, the _wrong_ places at the wrong times. That, and Grandmother had done the same thing.

Mathias watched the happenings from the sidelines wondering what it was the newcomer with the black coat and hat did to put food in his belly. After all, he could hardly eat those bibles he was so free with. The missionary was a tall and spindly man, not much muscle in his lanky arms or color on his pasty white face obstructed with a sharp, hawk-like nose. His build was unimpressive and his manner bone dry in the recitation of his speeches to the wind and the air and the few scattered shoppers of the pottery store. Mathias had no liking for the man. He talked and talked and talked, but when residents approached he did not know how to listen.

Grandmother said he had no ears for listening and a silver tongue for talking.

Slowly, Mathias came to agree with her, too. For all his endless talk the missionary man did not really help. This irked at Mathias and made frustration well up inside his belly, to see and be able to neither say nor do anything about it? It was enough to make his insides burn like hot coals fresh from the fireplace. Still Mathias did nothing. He, like Sam Grey Wolf, kept the peace.

Day after day the missionary came and he did not buy goods from Old Gray Wolf’s pottery store or purchase trinkets to help the Little Coyote family who sold hand-woven dream catchers made of real feathers and furs to make ends meet, he did not spare change for the panhandlers, which were admittedly somewhat shady in appearance. The tall missionary-man did _nothing_ that might actually offer help of any sort to anyone on _the Rez_.

Mathias, privately, thought people on _the Rez_ would be more willing to listen to a man seeking to _‘save their immortal souls’_ if their bellies were not so often empty.

Still, he needed to put more fire in his belly if he was to make born storytellers like Grandmother and Old Grey Wolf listen; the missionary’s voice sounded like the low droning of a insect buzzing about the ears and face.

Mathias came to see he was right and before long the residents and the missionary man came to an impasse, one that neither could break and Mathias knew, finally, the man would soon leave. Give up his efforts to baptize the Indians on _the Rez_ and let life return to its usual patterns. Mathias was anxious for this time to arrive. 

The man with the black coat and hat claimed to be a _‘man of God’_ and he spoke very eloquently for all that he spoke not with them but at them instead, which won him no favors among the Cheyenne. Still, his elocution was good. Mathias might even have listened once or twice as words spilled out and cluttered the air with righteous sounds.

This ended when he watched the missionary strike a local _Rez_ dog without provocation. It whimpered as it scampered off making tracks for a less populated location. From that point on the missionaries’ words rang hollow to his ears, no matter how finely they were dressed up. Putting a bowtie around the neck of a donkey did not make it any less of an ass nor did words that did not follow deed fall as anything but hot air.

It wasn’t a very _kind_ or _merciful_ thing he had done to the _Rez_ bitch.

In fact, Mathias had seen the same done by drunks and wife-beaters, lay bouts and thugs, but from such men it was expected. And then came this spindly, reedy voiced man talking big and what did he do? He did the same as all the others. It was infinitely more wrong-headed, this one act of casual cruelty from a man who preached mercy. From that point on the dislike in his heart was rooted deep and he did not care enough to undo it. 

He carefully heeded the words of Grandmother for she was yet to be proven wrong.

Mathias did not understand the man and his lacking of knowledge -- _understanding_ \-- bothered him. It grew and grew festering under his skin. He had allowed himself to listen and been, in the end, tricked by fine words that amounted to nothing. He did not want to make the same mistake twice. Why had the man acted that way? Mathias turned the thought over and over in his head. The man should have ignored the dog. He could have _‘turned the other cheek’_ as he said Christian men were taught to do and the pocket-book bible inferred. But he had not. The tall missionary man with the hard, wrinkly mouth and snow-white hair had not done what he told others to do.

Mathias had seen and heard worse things done on _the Rez_. It could be a hard unforgiving place. But he was not so unmovable that he saw the need for beating a dog. It just was an ordinary tan colored bitch nursing puppies with nothing at all special about it other than that Mathias had looked in on it and it’s little ones on the sly. He had provided what little scraps he could spare for the puppies.

It seemed doubly wrong somehow, this act, coming from a man making all the claims the missionary did. He acted with unprovoked violence beyond a bit of barking in the backdrop of his sermonizing to a people and a place that neither welcomed nor wanted his presence. After that incident Mathias preferred the tan colored _Rez_ bitch’s barking to the missionary's double-speaking manner and he stopped listening.

It became nothing more than the buzzing of a bee that needed to be swatted away from the face.

But he kept the book. 

Grandmother Istas might not have had not had anything _nice_ to say when he had shown her the book but she had not seen fit to take it from him either. Instead she told him _more_ stories about their people and the ways that she feared would die out if the youths of her times did not care to learn what their parents and Grandparents had to offer. In an effort to please her Mathias made himself comfortable and asked her to tell _him_ , if she wanted. He decided it was only right to do so.

Grandmother Istas made time for him more often than any other in his life. She shared many things and many stories. Among the tales she spoke of something that was seldom ever named by any other among the Cheyenne. Grandmother’s stories of the past gave Mathias pause sometimes. She swore them as true as the missionary mans tales but he was not so sure that he took those bible stories as absolutes and the lone representative for said religion had failed to acquit himself well. But then, Mathias also knew, the Christian truths were sometimes no less fantastical than trickster coyotes, spider Gods, and chieftain daughters who lay with strange-men and ended up birthing puppies who became stars. 

_Besides_ , _not all Cheyenne are respectable, upstanding members of the tribe_ , Mathias reasoned.

He was not a bigot. There were always good people and bad people on both sides of the equation; that was the way of the world. Not all Indians where like Ada and Jonas Black Elk, proprietors of _the Red Pony_ in town. They had good standing among the community and often provided food and goods on _the Rez_ when business was good.

_Not all Indians are good so it is only right that not all missionary men are bad._

Mathias folded his arms across his chest as he considered the matter. He would not care to be judged by the brushing of one stroke and came to the conclusion that he would retain an open mind for the time being. Settled on a course of action Mathias prepared himself for long hours of listening, as was their oral tradition. It was the perfect sort of day for winter stories anyways. The wind outside was battering their small house fiercely.

Mathias could hear thunder rolling down from the mountains. Right now there were two wildfires tearing through the land up in _Beaver Creek_ and _Bear Lodge_ , probably because some asshole campers didn’t put out their campfire and now they all had to suffer with the hazy, smoke-congested skies that made Grandmother’s breathing congested and nasal.

Mathias felt the first twinges of genuine concern shoot through him and prayed a bolt of lightning didn’t strike a match in the already hot tinder of the mountains, burning them all out of house and home. It could happen but he prayed it did not. The storm rattled the windows, howling like a pack of rabid wolves as it tore through their little patch of land on _the Rez_. 

For this reason, they were all -- he, May, and Grandmother -- huddled inside by the small fireplace. Cooped up inside by bad weather they had little to do besides listening to elders trading wintertime stories. Chris Lame Elk had gone home hours ago before the weather took a bad turn, leaving just him and May Still water to listen to Grandmother. It was probably for the best. Chris frightened easily and for now they were effectively trapped. He secretly enjoyed these hours sitting by the fire with May and Grandmother. But no one else needed to know that.

Grandmother told the kind of stories the elders boxed children around the head for repeating, so there had to be something worth knowing hidden in her, sometimes rambling, accounts. 

Mathias had asked his friends' parents about skinwalkers once before. Driven by a boy's honest curiosity to know things that he should not. They had become very squirrelly, unwilling to share anything. 

_“Don’t speak of such things,”_ he was told, _“Don’t ask me that again,”_ he was chided. It was _don’t_ this, and _don’t_ that, but no one would explain to him why. He liked to understand things, to know their place in the world.

It helped him to better understand himself and his place in the world but the grown-ups didn’t understand this about _him_. Except for Grandmother Istas. She always looked deep into his eyes; her fingers perched beneath his proud chin and gave him an answer he could abide.

“There is a proper time and hour for such stories, do not trouble the rest with these questions Mathias, and when the hour has arrived I will tell you what you wish to know.”

“Perhaps someday you will come to wish you did not know,” Grandmother Istas had said, but she had been smiling a little so Mathias had not let himself be overly troubled.

He would have his answers and was satisfied. Grandmother Istas was old and kind, and she smelled constantly of sage. But she did not lie.

“I have not forgotten your questions Mathias, do you wish to hear a story?” the old woman asked him, her eyes gleaming in the soft glow of the crackling fire. “Do you wish to hear a story known only to the Still Water ancestors? About the mixed-blood skin-walker who lived among the _Tsistsistas_ for a time? _”_

“Yes, Grandmother,” he said, May lilting an echo of his own voice.

“Please, tell us,” May implored, her maple eyes brimming with excitement.

The old woman nodded. “Such curiosity in your hearts, such wide-eyed wonder!” she said, wistful for the days of her own youth, perhaps. 

Mathias imagined she must have asked _twice_ the number of questions he did and received _three times_ as many rebukes to know as much as she did. 

“I will tell tales of the yee naagloshii, but you must remember this one rule, and never cross from it, my little doves. What we speak of does not leave this room. The words yee naagloshii do not cross your impertinent curious lips outside this room, understand? Do you remember what I have taught you? And why?” she demanded, her look lingering on Mathias who nodded to show he understood she spoke to him at that moment. 

Mathias swallowed, his throat tight as he recalled what she had said to him. “To speak it is to call it.”

Scary stories were fun. He enjoyed them as much as the next Indian boy on _the Rez_ but there was something infinitely scarier about Grandmother Istas stories. To Grandmother they were more than words. They were the words of her ancestors, experiences passed down through oral tradition. It made the _yee naagloshii_ , the _wendigo_ , and _puckwudgies_ far more fearsome than _Freddy Kruger_ or the _Swamp Thing_. 

These beings, unlike mainstream media monsters, were real. They existed somewhere out there in the dark corners of the world. And sometimes, Grandmother claimed, in their very own backyards which never failed to send cold tendrils of fear straight down his spine. He was old enough to know that what he saw on the television was false creations dreamed up in someone’s mind and that the beings Grandmother spoke of were not. Mathias knew it had to be so because Grandmother had said as much. And Grandmother Istas did not _lie_.

Slowly, as he and May matured when the weather was poor and they were alone in the house Grandmother would tell them things that the elders would not have them know. She did not swear them to secrecy when the tales were done. He and May both knew without being told that if they broke her confidence the stories would end and never begin again. Grandmother knew things the others had forgotten. 

The other reasons for men and women to take to burning sage and juniper and for carrying a handsomely made cane whittled by a powerful _Medicine Man_ from Oklahoma, made of a white ash tree.

Mathias had always imagined Grandmother Istas had lived an interesting life before old age confined her to a small circle of land. Where she passed her days in a perpetually rocking chair watching people walk by from her place on the front porch, weather permitting. At age eleven and a half Mathias knew things other boys his age did not: that there were two certified ways to kill a skinwalker and neither was easy.

Grandmother smiled down at them, her chair squeaking as it rocked, forward and back, forward and back.

Mathias fell into the rhythm of the sound and the hypnotic dancing of the orange flames a deep hush falling across the room.

“Have you heard the tale of _‘The Trickster and the Skin-Stealer’_ , my little doves? No, I thought not.”

“It might be a bit hard on such young ears, but, well, you see things twice as violent all the time on that television so I do not think I am doing irreparable harm,” she muttered. “I would wait until you were older...But I will not live forever to tell these stories to you, you know.”

Mathias watched as May frowned, her brow bunching into a concerned thundercloud that Grandmother headed it off at the pass with a gentle cluck of her tongue. 

“Now, now, no need for that look, all things which live, die. Eventually, it is the way of things.”

“This story begins, as many often do, with a death,” Grandmother explained.

Mathias huffed. If it were going to be _that_ kind of story he would rather sit out in the rain until he was soaked to the bone and muddy as a dog. Grandmother knew him well, though, and chuckled, muttering about _boys_. He did not understand and she did not explain. 

“Yes, Mathias, it is a story of love, and loss, and how a cursed skin-stealer wronged a beautiful, young Cheyenne woman grieving by a river,” Grandmother went on to explain, the lack of humor in her tone catching his attention. 

“It sounds like a sad story, Grandmother,” May said, staring down at her small folded hands. 

“There is a great deal of sadness in the world,” Grandmother replied, patting her on the head and resumed her rocking. “This is the story of Swift Coyote and Little Fox with a small role played by a warrior called White Star.”

“If there was a skin-walker around why didn’t the warrior kill it?” Mathias asked. “I would have killed any skinwalker that I met!”

Grandmother’s mouth was pursed into a line of disapproval as she fixed him with a sharp look. “Enough! Still your tongue before it leads you into trouble!” she barked.

Mathias grumbled but obeyed.

“Not all battles are won with blood and bone.”

Mathias frowned. “Then how?”

Grandmother poked his forehead, not unkindly, with her sturdy cane. “Why, by using the other gift Maheo gave you, other than your fists -- your _wits_ , my young brave.” 

“Okay, but how?” Mathias demanded. 

“Have you ever read _Sherlock Holmes_ , Mathias? No. Perhaps you should, all this curiosity -- it should not go to waste. Maybe you will become a detective, or tribal policeman someday, with all this driving need to _know_ things you possess!” she chortled, ruffling his hair.

Mathias grunted flattening it back into place; he hated it when she did that. Which considering it was Grandmother Istas? She probably knew.

Sitting at Grandmothers feet he considered what it would mean to join tribal police, the men and women who were meant to protect the people of the Rez and it sounded _right_. Mathias might have suspected the ring of destiny to be loud in his ears – if he believed in such things.

Mathias scooted closer, listening to Grandmother’s voice washing over him, telling the story of Swift Coyote.

“It begins with a beautiful Cheyenne woman, or _Tsistsistas_ which as you know is our word for ourselves.” Grandmother paused, chucking May by the chin. “Do you know what that word means? No. _‘Beautiful people,’_ May, for our ancestors' clean-cut features I imagine.”

“Where was I…” Grandmother muttered. “Right, Swift Coyote. She was kneeling by the Sweetwater River, which now flows through central Wyoming and east to the Pathfinder Reservoir on the North Platte River. It follows the Oregon Trail from Casper to South Pass, beautiful open land, before pollution and city smog blotted out the stars...but enough of the past. This woman, she was alone, mourning a recent loss,” Grandmother explained. “Her husband had been killed.” 

Mathias pretended he was not interested in this beautiful woman, alone by the river. He pretended he did not care the same way he told himself that there was nothing he could do for the tired _Rez_ bitch and its wiggling puppies. Mathias did this by staring hard into the fire and yet his ears clung to every word. He wanted to know what this beautiful woman had to do with the feared skin-walker that no one would tell him about; no one except for Grandmother.

So, out of respect, Mathias listened.

************

The Origins of A Half-Blood Skinwalker, _Forgotten Tales_ : 

A long, long time ago, when the world was newer and the stars ever bright in the endless, black night sky there lived a nomadic group of Cheyenne. They had encamped beside a large river, allowing them to sate the thirst of themselves and their beautiful red and white-colored ponies. Beside the river knelt a beautiful young woman named Swift Coyote. She had long raven-black hair that fanned down her back in a _Stygian_ like shadow. 

She was crying, her tears dropping down into the waters she gazed into, as her heart was cleaved into two parts. 

Running Eagle, her husband, and heart’s song was dead.

Slain by some creature in the dark of night when he and six other braves had gone out to trade with the Blackfoot tribe for food and supplies. Out of the seven braves only one, White Star, had returned. Everyone believed that _it_ was back to plague them some more as the long cold of winter began to set in. Whispers were forever buzzing through the air now as they spoke in circles of that which they feared.

He Who Walks On All Fours, the _yee naagloshii_ some tribes named the beings. A pity, it was not only them it stalked and harassed. Elders burned sage and juniper in the hope of warding off its evil presence, whittling their white ash tree utensils into sharp points as a means of last resort.

Swift Coyote who did not always do as she was told or listen to the words of those who came before did not know if she truly believed in such a being as a _yee naagloshii_. Such a being was said to have once been a powerful Medicine Man before turning to the _Witchery Way_ and inflicting harm instead of healing. 

Hawk Woman, the matriarch of their tribe said it had been a bad sign that Little Deer heard her father’s voice calling to her in the night before the braves had left. It had been the first sign of bad things to come. A stampeding buffalo had killed little Deer’s father two seasons past. 

She did not know if _it_ was what had killed Running Eagle and she did not care. She was consumed by her grief. She wondered if it might steal the skin of her loved one and call for her in the dark. She thought, maybe, she would go. To look upon her heart’s song one last time before giving way to death which came for all, sooner or later. _All things which live, die._ These were the words of her Grandmother and how bitterly they tasted.

Swift Coyote felt oneness with the earth, her knees moistened by the moss beside the river, and the soft burbling of the water lovely as a baby’s first laugh. But it did not return Running Eagle to her. Maybe they were wrong, maybe there was no need for her dear friend Little Fox to sleep with a sharp, white ash tree stake beside her bedding, and the incessant burning of sage and cedar and juniper to keep the being from entering their lodges. 

‘It was a deformed wolf or bear, perhaps, that had slain and eaten their braves,’ Swift Coyote told herself but even as the thought occurred a twig snapped in the distance disturbing her thoughts. She glanced across the river, frozen, wondering what manner of creature had joined her by the river. It was no creature she spied. It was unlike any animal that walked or crawled upon the earth that she saw. It was neither human nor beast in manner. Tall and muscular like many Cheyenne warriors were tall and muscular with strong ropy arms but they hung too long, leaving the impression of deformity. 

She had summoned it to her with her reckless thoughts. 

It was the _skin-walker_ , the _yee naagloshiii_ , it had many names and all struck terror into the hearts of those who stumbled across its path. For it stank badly of death, decay and rot. Swift Coyote's eyes widened until the whites were showing and her mouth parted in a soundless scream of terror. In the days to come, she would never be able to truly describe what she witnessed, only that the scent of death was heavy in the air and that it was man-like but not a man at all. 

It had an awkward rolling gait, as it hunched towards the river's edge, piercing her with its black hollow eyes. Eyes that held her transfixed; she was bespelled into stillness. She was trapped, unable to tear her gaze away from it. It was naked, adorned only by a massive black wolf pelt draped across its back.

The being wore it with the wolf-face pulled low, so it was its eyes that peered out at her unblinking and black as pitch, brimming with strange unnatural desire. It had come, summoned by her forbidden thoughts, exactly as Grandmother said it would happen. 

‘Never speak of it, do not even think of it if you can help it, child,’ Grandmother had warned.

It was common knowledge passed down around the campfires that one did not speak its name, or think its name, without undertaking great personal risk. As a child, she believed in the blind way all children believed their elders. As a woman, she accepted the importance of shared stories and thought about it no more. How wrong she had been for now she was trapped. She despaired of ever again seeing the morning sun rising into the eastern sky. 

To invoke their name was to invite them in. _What foolish pride, to doubt the wisdom that came before!_ ‘The old woman had been right,’ she thought, transfixed by the black pits that were its eyes unable to move. Swift Coyote was caught like a rabbit in a snare, drowning in the fathomless dark of its inhuman eyes. It could mask his skin to take the shape of a man, but his eyes gave him away; they were wolf-eyes set on a man-like face. 

Terror clawed at her chest, willing her lungs to take breath and scream. But she could not. It would not let her, holding her fast with his hypnotic stare. She shivered as the man-like-creature began its approach. It stalked across the river that divided them in purposeful and slow strides, grinning a snake's opened-jawed smile, for it knew she could not run. Her heart pounded so loud it became all she could hear.

_Thud, thud, thud,_ it went rattling against her ribs. She was not prepared to join Running Eagle. She toppled backward on the bank as the yee naagloshii towered over her casting a massive shadow she could not escape. She stared, unable to look away. 

“Swift Coyote,” he said, his voice becoming guttural and inhuman but also male in tone. It was a wolf's snarl tempered with human speech. If ever a world were to speak it would sound like the skin-walker did that day. 

“Three times you called to me, and so I have come,” he declared, his teeth flashing in a false mimicry of a smile. 

“No,” she whispered, the words sticking to her mouth as she tried to speak them. “Leave! I did no such thing,” she spat, forcing her head to the side. It was better to speak to the river and trees than be entrapped by those hollow inhuman eyes.

“Not so fast, little rabbit. Not so clever, to call on me,” he said, and when he laughed it was the cackle of a black-winged crow. 

The air became thick and hard to breathe, stinking like rotten meat spoilt by the midday sun and it was no longer the half-man kneeling between her legs, her buckskin dress riding up to reveal the naked flesh of her calves. It wore a new face Swift Coyote looked upon. It was the face of Running Eagle. Only it was not her husband; for her eyes could never deceive her heart. 

The creature was nothing more than a shallow imitation of what Running Eagle had been in life. It had stolen his face, his body, but it wore it like ill-fitted clothes, lacking the fire of his spirit and the good humor that always graces his smile. What irony had befallen Swift Coyote? Forced to look upon Running Eagle's face and not see any of the parts of him she cherished. Those were not the eyes of her heart’s song. Never had he been so hard-faced and cold in manner. 

Unable to bear it -- to see Running Eagle’s skin worn by the cursed yee naagloshii, she beat at the monster's chest in helpless rage. 

“Take back your own skin foul thing, but do not wear his face before my eyes!” she snarled, fighting as clothes were torn from her body until she was naked below his gaze. 

The being, which wore her husband’s face, took for itself her husband's rights claiming her body with a lustful frenzy.

It wore Running Eagle’s face while prying into her secret places as her feet splashed and kicked at the edges of the river. Cruel laughter mocked her wild thrashing and large hands pinning her wrists to the ground. 

Defenseless, she went limp and silent, her hands tearing at prairie grass digging into the earth until dirt and mud lined her fingernails. Human shaped teeth sank into her neck penetrating her flesh and she feared she was being devoured whole. The stories did not speak of it eating human flesh, but that meant nothing. It was not a story that pressed its hardened sex between her legs but a creature of flesh and blood. A perversion of the natural way that smelled so strongly of death that her stomach roiled and nausea threatened. 

Blood, slick and wet burned a path from neck to breast curling around her heaving ribs. The wound burned like fire and sweat beaded on her brow, her spirit struggled against the poison leaching into her blood.

“No,” she breathed in such soft sorrow that the river spirits heard her cries. In answer, they made the world hazy and distant. 

Pulling her conscious self out from under the stink of death, away from hot fetid breaths grunted into her ears. A blanket gently draped across eyes to make them unseeing of that face which haunted her sight. She was made unfeeling to the weight pinned between her hips, the deep ache of rough, ill use her body was put to. Swift Coyote drifted, a leaf floating in a sea of numbness until the act was done. 

“You are marked, woman,” the man snarled, “bound by blood spilled and blood shared until such time you bear my child into this world.” 

A sickly green flash of light surrounded them, the color of decaying hyssop bushels, and when it subsided she noticed that something smelling of copper and bitter had been smeared across her parted lips as she lay in the dirt shaking. It coated her tongue and slipped down her throat before she could spit it out. 

“You are mine, [_ó'kôhóme_](http://www.cheyennelanguage.org/words/animals/coyote.wav).” 

After speaking those parting words the dark creature retreated. As silent as the shadows that began to dance across the ground as evening fell he left Swift Coyote where she lay, blood-smeared with her spirit bent to the point of breaking, teetering along the knife's edge of deathly despair. In the long moments of silence between night and day, she had many dark forbidden thoughts, of joining the _Camp of the Dead_ and Running Eagle. The thought of parting from Little Fox, who was such a dear friend to her, without word or warning, stayed her hand. Little Fox had long since lost her birth mother and father to the Pox, it had taken them when she was only a child and on that fateful day, Swift Coyote swore she would not willingly go where Little Fox could not follow. Swift Coyote knew she could not break a vow she had held to for twenty years. 

Time passed but Swift Coyote did not much notice it’s passing; she did not know for how long after she remained, it might have been minutes, or it could have been hours, gathering her scattered wits and torn clothes. 

Little Deer had been right. Grandmother had been right, too. Swift Coyote winced as her body throbbed and ached with pain but she did not let that deter her movement. She regained her footing and with painstaking slowness limped her way back to camp, back to Little Fox whose kind smile never failed to uplift her spirit. She knew that by now she had been missed.

It was with no little happiness, subdued and squashed, as it was, that Little Fox was the first face she spied as she made her way back. The shrieking she might have done without but it did not trouble her either. Little Fox had cried out when she saw her friend return, bloodied and bruised with her once fine dress torn in peculiar ways. 

Because she was very smart and just as kind Little Fox gently took her friend by the elbow and led her to sit by the fire, brushing back her long black hair to better wash and clean the flesh wound left by the skin-stealer. Swift Coyote jumped at every brush of her knuckles to her bare neck but said nothing to stop her. 

Little Fox knew something of what had transpired by the river but she said nothing. 

The brave White Star heard the commotion and ran to see what the fuss was about, his eyes becoming hard as flint rocks when they took in the disarray of Swift Coyotes clothes and the blood coating her neck. Long had White Star loved Swift Coyote from afar, but she had chosen Running Eagle for her husband and so he had given up, accepting Snow Bird as his first wife. She had died giving birth to a stillborn and he had remained unattached since, but often did his eyes fall to Swift Coyote. 

For the first time, Swift Coyote realized there must be twigs and foxtails netted in her black hair, mud-encrusted to her feet and beneath her nails. Wilting under his searching gaze Swift Coyote turned her face to the ground in shame. 

“Who has done this?” White Star thundered maddened that such an act had happened within such a close range of their encampment. 

It was only through the small mercy of Little Fox glaring hard into his direction until he felt her gaze like a fire on his skin that he desisted and refrained from asking, ‘why did you not call out for help?’ or other unhelpful questions to further shame Swift Coyote.

So often it was that Little Fox was known to be kind that others forget that kindness sprung from a deep well that would happily overrun and drown in murky depths those who threatened her dear ones. 

White Star relented and crossed his arms over his chest, scanning the gently swaying trees, and encroaching darkness knowing he would get no answer tonight, and now that the deed was done seething over the past would not miraculously make it _undone_. 

Swift Coyote knew White Star would make war with the cursed yee naagloshii and die the same death as Running Eagle if she spoke now so she retained her silence. White Star was hot-tempered, quick to rush actions that required slowness. Running Eagle had been the counterbalance to White Star’s recklessness. But now Running Eagle was dead and therefore unable to offer White Star his solemn counsel.

Swift Coyote sighed, staring down at her hands instead of White Star’s angry face. 

“Peace, White Star,” Little Fox said quickly interceding, being the sound voice of reason among the three friends. 

“Do you not have eyes to see? She is not well.”

Swift Coyote stared into the sparks of the small campfire lost in the chaos of her own mind. Little Fox gently urged the events by the river from her in fits and starts long into the night with soft hands and gentle words. They had been friends since their youth and she brought comfort Swift Coyote knew would have been otherwise impossible. So she told Little Fox who darted off to speak to the elders in her place. 

“It was the ---” Little Fox began to ask upon her return after having spoken with the matriarch at length, but Swift Coyote’s hand snapped out with violent force, cutting short her words. 

Little Foxes cheek reddened, tears of hurt feelings shining in her doe-brown eyes. 

Swift Coyote sucked in a breath, speaking in a low, trembling voice. “Do not speak of it, or it may come for you, too.”

“I could not bear the thought of that,” Swift Coyote said, tightly gripping Little Fox’s hand in her own that trembled still.

“Not to you, not ever.”

Swift Coyote did not know what the elders said, she was too tired, to heart-sore to care. That night as she sat before the crackling fire she cut off her beautiful long black hair and wounded her calves with sharp rocks in the throes of ritual mourning. She made visible to all her tribe the unseen wounds of her heart; it helped to carry the burden of her losses. That night and many that followed, her sleep was restless and her dreams haunted by a storm of whispers calling her deeper and deeper into the forest. 

_“Where are you?” she called out, rushing towards the sound of Running Eagle’s voice. But no matter how fast or nimble she made her feet she could not catch up._

_“Stop so I might find you!” she shouted into the dark. Her only answer would be the barking-howl of a coyote that became a ravens-caw and then, lastly, a man’s chilling cackle._

_“Come to me,_ [ _ó'kôhóme_ !](http://www.cheyennelanguage.org/words/animals/coyote.wav) _” the voice whispered, fetid breath wafting across her face. A clawed hand enclosed around her arm from behind. It held her bruising tight._

She awoke to Little Fox calling her name but with no Little Fox. She took a moment to calm the pounding of her heart as she lay in bed drenched in sweat. It was then that she felt the stinging of her arm. She looked to her shoulder, where the beast of her dream had grabbed her and saw a five-taloned like scratch, bloodied and red with infection. 

Swift Coyote learned not even her dreams were safe from the cursed skin-stealer who had stolen her husband's face and her honor. Swift Coyote bolted upright, throwing back her bedding as she stumbled from her lodge and into the trees to empty her stomach. She retched hard enough that she was sent to her knees. She patted her stomach a strange unwelcome thought rising to the surface. Could it have gotten her with a child on its first try? She wondered to herself. 

She leaned against the rough bark of a sycamore, her knee-high moccasin boots unsteady, and her nether's achingly tender and swollen from defilement. Was she even now carrying its half-breed child? She thought in despair. Such a child was neither human nor skinwalker -- an abomination to the natural world. But she knew that it was possible. A man could get a child off his wife on their first night, after all. Whatever it was now, once the skin-stealer had been just a man, too, once a long time ago. Swift Coyote cursed foully and viciously enough that her ancestors would surely weep in their ancestral lands. 

She would not nurse a mutant yee naagloshii at her teat. She would concoct a secret women’s remedy and be rid of the unwanted thing growing inside her. No one would ever need to know the whole truth. She went foraging into the woods for the next few mornings, though she startled at every snapped twig and cawing bird, as she went about collecting the necessary mixture of herbs: rue, juniper, and hellebore. After this, careful to keep her doing secret, Swift Coyote smashed the herbs together with crushed ants and downed the bitter herbs praying to the spirits that it would take. It did not.

It occurred to her that the creature had cast Bad Medicine over her with his strange magic and the exchange of blood for blood.

She was bound to it, and it to her, she feared. Which meant that it might be through unnatural means that the child's life, and hers, was preserved despite her best efforts.

The next morning she became sick again only this time it did not go unnoticed. Little Fox watched her with sad knowing eyes. But she said nothing and neither did Swift Coyote. What was there to be said? Like Grandmother enjoyed crowing, 'it was what it was' and there was no helping it.

  
  


Desperation drove her to recklessness. Again and again, morning after morning, Swift Coyote smashed juniper and rue downing the bitter-tasting concoction that was intended to end the life of the thing she carried, but it did not work. The thing inside her womb clung to life -- a sickness that would not be expelled. 

It was as determined to live as she was that it should die. They were all three bound, she, the skin-stealer, and his bastard whelp. She gnashed her teeth to realize the futility of fighting what could not be killed, poisoned, or otherwise done away with. One night in the clutches of a great miasma of darkness she took a small sharp knife to her wrists in the privacy of her lodge, praying that Little Fox might someday understand. This too proved pointless. She woke, hale and hearty, the little sickness moving in her belly. 

She was at a crossroad with few paths left to her but one last attempt one that might yet send her after Running Eagle into an early grave. She would seek out _thickweed_ , a plant with thin, narrow stems and pale blue blossoms. It was sweet-scented, a clever disguise for a plant that when ingested in large amounts could be fatal as the rattlesnakes bite. So be it, she decided. No yee naagloshii would be born of her flesh and blood! No hollowed-out thing, this, this -- spirit-stealer and skin-taker that grew inside would live to take its first breath. Running Eagle had been stolen from her by the child’s father, knowing this how could she stand to look at it, at herself, carrying this mutant? 

No. She was young and strong, capable of laboring in the fields for crops, weaving baskets, sewing, and keeping house. There would be other loves in her life other children who were full-blooded _Tsistsistas_. Swift Coyote was not blind to White Star’s watching eyes. She had a future. She had a life to live, if only she could be unencumbered of this burden. She had this one last trick that may yet prove fruitful. 

She was sick for three days and nights but she did not bleed and she knew she had failed again. She had no more tricks left and sank into despair that not even Little Fox could shake her from with her smiling eyes and unobtrusive kindnesses. 

No bodies were ever recovered from the attack. There was not even bones left behind for the bereaved to lay to rest. The men were simply gone like ash scattered on an eastern wind; their blood and flesh swallowed up either by the creature who slew them or the earth as scavengers gorged themselves on easy meat. Hawk Woman was inconsolable for many days in her grief for her husband having been taken the same night as Running Eagle. Swift Coyote had mourned Running Eagle for four days and four nights but on the fifth, she set aside her grief and endless tears as she set about resuming her life. Running Eagle was dead, his spirit at peace in the afterlife. It was time to seek her peace.

“What will be, will be, what the spirits have chosen is not for me to fight,” Swift Coyote said, her words heard only by the shadows dancing on her lodging, and the howling wind.

************

Six months later in preparation for the birthing time, Little Fox accompanied her to a place near the river where they made a place to bed down and wait for the appointed hour. What should have taken many hours, as first births often did, took only four instead. Her screams rent the air but when it was done, her pain-filled cries fell to silence and a child was lying in the dirt. When she looked into small dark eyes staring back into her own she cried bitter tears, the first she had cried since her defilement by the river, for what she knew had to be done. 

Swift Coyote wanted to hate this child. In fact she had hated it for the whole time she had carried it inside her, the little sickness she could not be rid of and yet she experienced something altogether different now. The moment was here with the child born of her defilement resting in her arms and she realized something. She did not hate this little thing, it had been an unwanted burden, yes, but her hate was gone. Burnt out by the guileless eyes staring back shimming with the soft like of all the night stars.

How could she hate this little thing, small and defenseless as he was to her will? What bright eyes, and a pert - _proud_ \- nose he possessed! No hint of deformity or evilness in his soft, light, copper skin that would certainly darken in time. He had five fingers and five toes and his eyes were unmistakably and so beautifully _human_. 

Swift Coyote did not even have a name to give the child and already her heart longed to attach itself to this small, defenseless thing she cradled in her arms, her chest full to bursting with a mother's love. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, to feel this way. This small one who she tried so hard to prevent from taking his first breathe. She had a son, _her_ son. But it could not be. It was the son of _a skin-stealer_ , the very same who had slain Running Eagle and Hawk Woman’s husband. There could be no safe place for such a creature among her people. 

Little Fox turned away as Swift Coyote placed a farewell kiss to the child's forehead and thrust his frail-looking body below the water. 

It was a kindness, Swift Coyote told herself. What kind of life could a skin-stealer’s son have? Being neither human nor fully beast there was no place for him to belong. Swift Coyote’s heart broke anew as she wished the child had born some mark of the father, sharp teeth, inhuman eyes, or hairy, clawed hands. 

Instead? He had been perfect.

Swift Coyote’s shoulders shook violently, hot tears mingling with the water as she released open-mouthed sobs. Her eyes were squeezed shut so she would not have to see. Soon all she could hear was the water as it rushed over her hands. Her hands then began to go numb and she tightened her grip, unwilling to send the child to a watery grave as well.

When enough time had passed for the deed to be done Swift Coyote lifted him out of the water. His body was still and cold to the touch; all human warmth having been leached out of his body by the river waters that stole his life. Swift Coyote leaned into Little Fox’s shoulder, grasping for warmth to ease the bitter sorrow encrusting her heart. 

Her son, like Running Eagle, was dead.

“Look!” Little Fox cried, her eyes wide. 

The child squirmed in her arms, life flooding back into his dark eyes. His mouth opened and he began to cry, hands flailing, grasping for anything to hold onto. Swift Coyote watched as his lungs filled with air as he howled out his unhappiness into the relentless dark, the cruel _unfeeling_ world, he had been birthed too. She gasped aloud. 

Without thinking she gave the child her pinky to hold onto. The crying immediately ceased. She found his grip strong for one so small. 

‘What an impressive will for life the little one possessed,’ Swift Coyote mused, beginning to hum old tunes. The same soothing notes her mother had sung to her as a babe.

“It is a sign,” Little Fox hurriedly said, her voice hushed and quiet. 

‘What a treasure it is to have a friend who could know my thoughts so well,’ Swift Coyote privately thought to herself entranced by small dark eyes glittering up at her.

Little Fox understood her choice long before it had been consciously made. 

“That is what we will say, my friend. You put him in the water and the spirits have said that you must raise him and so you will.” 

She was _Tsistsistas_ , so too would be her son. And with his fine unblemished skin, and clear shining eyes how could such a place be denied? All would be well. She would make it so, somehow, with Little Fox’s help.

Little Fox squeezed her shoulder. “You will not be alone, I am here.”

Swift Coyote nodded absently, staring down into the small angular face. “It will be as you say, Little Fox.”

“He is mine, _my_ son, and the waters cannot have him.”

Little Fox laughed into her shoulder knowing well the look upon her friend's face. “May the Spirits help _He Who Walks On All Four_ should he try to rip you asunder,” she snorted. 

“Now, what will we call your little howler?”

Swift Coyote tore her eyes off of her son and listened to the soft burbling of rushing water, meandering its way downstream, and the far off howl of a lone wolf echoing across the land. A melancholic symphony as it stood on the plains, muzzle tipped back as it called out to the pale winter moon.

“Howling Wolf,” Swift Coyote announced, nodding to herself. “Can you hear the _ho'nehe_? How loud and sad it sounds,” she murmured. 

“Howling Wolf then,” Little Fox agreed, her eyes edged with sadness. “He will be like that _no’nehe_ , alone and wandering, fighting for the right to _be_.”

“He will be my son,” Swift Coyote snapped, fixing Little Fox with a hard narrow-eyed glare. “He will have me,” she repeated, warding off the heavy truth in her friend's words. It was a truth she did not wish to hear.

“And he will have me, too, Swift Coyote,” Little Fox placated. “A son of your blood I will love as if he were born of my own.”

Swift Coyote lifted her eyes from her son to admire the strength of her friend's love. To claim a child born of a hated _skin-stealer_ was no small feat and yet there was no lie in Little Fox’s round face.

Little Fox sighed. “But we will not live forever, my friend.”

Swift Coyote said nothing, the tears overflowing from her eyes speaking more than words could express. 

‘No, not forever, but it will have to be strong enough to last the ages,’ she thought, tracing the curve of her son's face in a feathery caress. She could see nothing of his skin-stealing father in him now. He was guiltless to the circumstances of his birth, she knew that now, she would work to make others see it too. 

How far she had come in a matter of hours -- from placing his head beneath the water to knowing she would spill blood to give him the chance at one more breath. 

He was hers. 

_Her_ son, Howling Wolf. And the skin-stealer would not take him from her. Swift Coyote and Little Fox sat beside the riverbed, their heads bent together and their voices intermingled; they began to scheme in that way men knew to fear. When the sun crested the mountain they had devised a plan that would ensure the safety of Swift Coyote’s son. And, if they were lucky, bring an end to the yee naagloshii harassing their tribe.

Both women knew in their hearts that skin-stealers were once _men_ , and even the wisest man could be tricked with enough forethought and cunning. 

In the early morning hours, the two friends held hands sharing the same thoughts, listening to the cheerful noise of songbirds flitting about in the trees as hope bloomed in their chests. If they could do this thing the _Tsistsistas_ would owe them a steep debt. Tolerance would open the door; perhaps, in time it would grow to become acceptance of little Howling Wolf, son of _Swift Coyote_.

************

It came as no surprise to either woman that White Star had no wish to be part of their planning. He believed that Swift Coyote should give the child to its own kind if she no longer had the will to kill it herself. White Star had offered to do the deed himself but the press of her knife to his balls had silenced his unwanted advice. Little Fox’s steely glower had stilled his tongue on the subject altogether. 

Between the two of them White Star was, in this, outmatched. If he kept on insisting on this course of action he would be sent from their company and not welcomed back and he did not want this. He wished to help if only to ensure that the women did not become prey for the skin-stealer. For the child, he did not care, but for Swift Coyote and Little Fox he accepted the decision that they had come to for there was no argument that Swift Coyote did not refuse. She would see no harm done to her child. It was born of her flesh, what did it matter that the father was strange and foul? She claimed the whelp as her own with the fierceness of a den mother, ready to bare fangs and claw.

White Star, while dismayed, was also impressed and, eventually, he was won to the two women's cause. 

Swift Coyote was aware that White Star had designs of his own in mind but she let it be. There would be a time and a place for such matters and she determined that this was not it. She, Little Fox, and White Star spent long hours speaking of the old stories. Together they sorted through everything that had been passed down to them from their forefathers in the hope that something might help to defeat it. Without a powerful Medicine Man, there was little chance they could kill it. They were resilient beings, not easily brought to heel.

Their local Medicine Man, Lame Bull, had gone to a nearby Blackfoot encampment and would not return for many days leaving the enactment of the plan to her, White Star, and Little Fox. 

Members of the tribe pitied her situation, but they would not help. She could see it in their eyes and turned away faces. They wanted nothing to do with the infant son of a yee naagloshii. _Let it die, Swift Coyote._ That was the common consensus of her tribe but she could not. Hawk Woman could not be reasoned with and was speaking of exile for them _both_ if something was not done soon.

Swift Coyote told no one that she had tried to take his life and she did not have it in her heart to try again. She had swum the icy black river of that grief once; she would not traverse it again. The spirits had seen fit to take Running Eagle and in the same breathe given her a new purpose, Howling Wolf, her son.

And he was her son by blood and bone and he bore no outward mark of his cursed father. The spirits of the waters would not take him and it would be over her corpse that his cursed yee naagloshii father would succeed in the same.

“I will call him forth and ask the spirits of the land to bind him to _pact law_ , where each must act and obey to the letter of his or her word,” Swift Coyote announced. “In this way, the skin-stealer will not be able to act out of hand. I will then lure him with a challenge, devise the games and the rules.”

Little Fox hummed, her face turning thoughtful.

“This could work,” she muttered. 

“What do you think White Star?” she asked, turning to the warrior who frowned back at her. His face etched in an unbreakable cast of solemnity. 

“It could work,” White Star finally conceded. “But we must plan carefully Swift Coyote, or all will be lost, not just your son.”

************

Swift Coyote and her two companions set out into the woods guided by a bright Hunter’s Moon that lit the forest paths. It was eerily still and quiet as they made there way farther and farther from camp. Little Fox carried her son on her back. She feared he would come to harm if he remained alone among the tribe. He was still very small and defenseless. She could only pray to the Great Spirit God, _Meheo_ , that he grew big and strong. Failing that, clever would have to do. 

They came to a stop in a clearing where the moon illuminated the trees and surrounding area. It was here that they built a fire. Swift Coyote, Little Fox, and White Star raised their hands, breathing in the cedar smoke wafting in the air, chanting and singing their voices raised in harmony, their tongues curling around words older than time itself. It was the language of the _First People_. 

_In this place let him be found._

_In this place, by these rules must he, and we, be bound._

_By the light of the Hunter Moon. Let him appear, in accord_

_to this pact. By these rules we are all bound --_

_To the manner in which_

_we must act._

Swift Coyote stepped away from the fire, cedar smoke clinging to her skin and spoke to the waiting ears of darkness in a clear, strong voice that carried far out into the deep darkness of the night.

“ _He Who Walks On All Fours_ , I name you, Father of my Child,” she called out, once, twice, and thrice. 

“I call on you who begat a child of mixed blood from my body.”

Then he came, slithering out from the dark, a faceless form that as it drew nearer became man-like in appearance but not wholly human. His eyes glowed faintly, yellow-hued, and his mouth was pulled in a mawkish smile.

She shuddered at the sight of him, remembering hot breath and grasping hands, the ruthless thrust of his body in places he did not belong. She folded her arms across her chest and straightened her spine. She would not be cowed by the faint whisper of a memory. ‘What was done, was done,’ she reiterated in the confines of her mind.

Pulling at old wounds would help no one, least of all her. Not when she needed clarity of thought and words. 

“That is a good try, little coyote, but that is not my _true name_ ,” the skin-stealer snickered, laughing with the voice of a maddened dog. “I hope for your sake you have armed yourself with more than bits of cedar and a name that is useless to wield,” he added, turning from the two women to eye White Star. 

“Ah, another strapping warrior, I see. Do you imagine he can save the tattered shreds of your honor? Do you imagine his medicine is powerful enough to save you whom I have claimed as my blood bound?” he asked, wearing a smile that showed too many teeth.

The creature was the perfect chameleon and yet it could not resist letting its true color bleed through onto the canvas of its chosen skin. It relished in the terror and the sweet, sharp smell of fear, feeding off it like an aphrodisiac. 

“Enough talk or else the sun will rise before our business is complete,” Swift Coyote grit out, her face pinched with disgust. 

“You called and I have come, little coyote, for you possess something that is mine. Return it to me and we can part ways,” the skin-stealer reasoned. “What need have you for such a thing, in either case? It is a half-blood,” he chuckled, holding out his hand.

“Not so fast, skin-stealer,” Swift Coyote drawled, schooling her face to be as smooth and hard as stone. There was too much at stake and she knew she could not lose this game or all that she hoped for would be lost. “I wish to test our mettle, yours and mine. This is the true purpose of having called you forth.”

The skin-stealer threw back his head and laughed, it was not a pleasant sound and shivers tingle up the companions' spines. 

“No, it is not a little coyote but a mad-woman stands before me!” he snorted, confident that he had little to fear from two women and a lone warrior. 

Swift Coyote continued as if he had not spoken at all, her hands remained clenched into fists at her sides. 

“I have a proposition for you if you have the ears to listen!” she declared, lifting her chin with pride. 

The skin-stealer chuckled, an elongated tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Hmm, speak then. I am curious, it is not often I trade _words_ with women.”

Fear pulsed below Swift Coyote’s skin, fierce and strong, but she did not let it show. She buried it deep inside where the skin-stealer could not see it. 

“I will race you on foot, but only if you become a wolf. The one who makes it past that tree up ahead first wins and may ask a favor, which must be granted, as there earned prize.”

The skin-stealer cocked its head to the side, curious. “Why should I bargain when I can take what I desire?”

“Why? Because we four are now bound by pact laws. Have you forgotten already?” she taunted. 

“Or is it that you are afraid this frail woman fresh from birthing labors can outrun the great skin-stealer?” she exclaimed, knowing well how to best prick at the pride of man. 

“You are so big and strong, and I am small and thin,” she continued, knowing even the small gray rabbits could escape the hungry fox with the right circumstances.

“Very well, woman. We shall race, and what does the winner receive?”

“Why, whatever they ask for, do you agree?”

“Let it be as you say. I will let you go first, in the spirit of fairness, though it is long forgotten to my heart.”

They raced along the forest path, and Swift Coyote, true to her name, won. During the daylight hours, the three companions had dug a hole in the ground large and wide enough for a massive wolf and down, down; down it fell, impaled on white ash tree spikes.

But it did not die.

Swift Coyote watched with cold impassive eyes, as it emerged unscathed from the trap, its wounds sealing themselves for none had chanced to pierce the creature's heart.

The skin-stealer clawed his way out of the hole and gnashed his teeth, angered by her trickery. He was wounded but yet lived. 

“You cheat!” he snarled, reaming his vaguely human form. His arms, however, were over-long and the teeth in his mouth were too many and far too sharp to pass for humans. 

Swift Coyote lifted her chin. She remained unbowed in the face of the skin-stealers yellowed glaring eyes, his sharp, sharp teeth, and the surrounded stench of death that permeated the clearing. She thought of her son and made her thoughts brave, her back unbending. 

Underneath the stench, the horrible visage, it was still just a man with a man's thoughts and a man’s weakness.

“You dare speak to me of cheating? You who have powerful medicine far surpassing this frail woman’s body?”

The skin-stealer snorted and looked upon her with new eyes, beginning to understand. He could see that while her strength was lesser her mind was sharp as the cougars-unsheathed claws. Strength honed with bitter anger, well deserved.

“What boon do you ask, woman?” 

“Leave my village and my son in peace for the rest of your existence.”

“That is long indeed, best out of three, and I will free you from my blood pact too -- you will no longer be my blood bound then,” the skin-stealer countered. 

“So long as I choose the game, skin-stealer.”

“Very well, choose.”

White Star, Little Fox, and Swift Coyote conferred for long minutes before returning to where the skin-stealer waited, impatient at their chatter.

“You claim to know all, choose rightly from what I will ask you, and if you are correct you may do with my life as you will,” she said, choosing her words with care. “Show to me the face of he who I love most, he who holds first place in my heart.”

The skin-stealer laughed, his head thrown back in a hearty cackle. “Ah, you poor man, it is not you,” the beast said, looking directly at White Star who became still and unmoving as a great oak tree.

“I heard her silent screams at the riverbed, you know,” the skin-stealer boasted, puffing out his chest in pride. 

“I made her scream newer, sweeter, screams, too.”

Little Fox pressed the flat of her palm to White Star, forcing him to remain still.

“You have lost,” the skin-stealer said pityingly at Swift Coyote. As if, perhaps, some part of the creature had hoped she might win again. The forest stunk of rotten meat and it’s face transformed to her dead love, Running Eagle.

Swift Coyote smiled, her teeth a feral slash of white in the near-pitch darkness. 

“Wrong!” she crowed, “He was my love, this is true, but you stole his life and then gave me a new one in his place. It is this life, my sons, which is forever first in my heart. I was a wife, then a widow, and now, firstly _mother_.”

The skin-stealer snarled with impotent rage, bound by the words of their agreement to do no harm. 

“You filthy lying woman!” he raged. “It cannot be so, how can one such as you love a beast? Son of yee naagloshii!”

Swift Coyote snarled back, her expression fearsome as she beat her chest. 

“He is the son of Swift Coyote -- now and evermore!” she said with such ferocity that the skin-stealer was moved to caution. 

There was a strange power to speaking words, and on that night Little Fox and White Star knew that her son would never be only the get of a skin-stealer.

The skin-stealer looked at her with such confusion that something close to pity was roused in her heart. She had won because he did not believe any human could love something born from such violence.

Swift Coyote had outsmarted the skin-stealer.

“This last game I choose, my clever coyote,” the skin-stealer insisted and Swift Coyote had no choice but to bend to his will.

“Very well,” she said, mimicking his words.

“Tell your warrior to throw down his arms and that you will come away with me by your own will, to dwell in darkness with the skin-stealers that dwell in the canyons to the north of the plains. Leave your son in the care of this Little Fox to be reared. Agree, of your own free will with no thought of tricks and I will here and now swear never to do harm to you, your son, your tribe, or any descendants born of your bloodlines.”

This was more than they could have dreamed and Swift Coyote having to weigh her life in the balance of her child and tribe was inclined to accept. It was a good offer, the best she might receive from the likes of a skin-stealer. 

Swift Coyote listened to White Star shouting his refusal, his voice loud as rolling thunder, as she solemnly dipped her head in agreement to the skin-stealer’s offer. 

“Speak, woman, and know that I will hear the lie in them if you are not true to your words,” the skin-stealer cautioned.

“I will go,” Swift Coyote pronounced, determined to live by her word even as terror clawed at her heart. 

To go away with this cursed thing? Live all her days in darkness? It frightened her to do this thing, but she knew she would have to abide by her word. _Pact law_ was a double-edged blade that could cut either way. 

“To save my son, to save my tribe, I will go.”

The skin-walker growled in frustration, for yet again his plot had been foiled. The woman did not lie, she would go, and she would dwell to the end of her days with cursed skin-stealers to save her son from his clutches. 

If she had spoken a lie he would have taken all that he desired this night and every night to follow. But she had not, and even he was bound by the pact they had enacted. Swift Coyote had won the freedom of her tribe for the sake of her son.

“Go, go, that I might never see your face again,” the skin-stealer growled, his arms cutting through the air in dismissal. “Be known henceforth as _She Who Outwitted the Dark_. Take your son, take your freedom, you belong to no man or skin-stealer, woman, for on this night neither was cleverer than you.”

The skin-stealer turned his gaze to Swift Coyote. For a single moment, the pale shadow of the man he’d been once a long time ago stared back at the woman as if it were _he_ who was somehow transfixed by Swift Coyote. Swift Coyote glimpsed a lean, angular face, eyes brown like the hide of an elk, and clean-cut features...a man who had been _Tsistsistas._ A man not so different from Running Eagle, or White Star, or any of the others who lived in her village. 

White Star hurried to her side, his large hand enclosing her wrist as she and the skin-stealer locked eyes, and the moment was broken. The veil fell back into place and all she could see in the skin-stealers was the fathomless black, restless darkness that would never know true peace for so long as it drew breath. 

‘Perhaps, to such a one, death would be a kindness,’ Swift Coyote thought and turned away, whatever the skin-stealer had been once? He was that man no more. He was _yee nagloshi_ now and forever bound to the dark roads of the _Witchery Way_ he had chosen and for him, there was no turning back. The pale shadow of the good man he had been driven out by the corruption of his heart. 

‘Perhaps, death will find him in its own good time and he will reap all that he has sown, but it will not be this day,’ she thought, knowing just as surely that someday the skin-stealers time would come. Death came to all, eventually. 

‘All things which live, die,’ her Grandmother used to say when the children gathered at her knee and Swift Coyote no longer doubted the wisdom that came from those who lived long and hard before.

Swift Coyote strongly believed this truth might hold true even for _yee naagloshii_ and set all thoughts of the wretched creature and its fate from her mind. She was free, free of the binding, free of its presence, and she had her son.

She took hold of Little Fox’s hand and together the four of them returned to camp with a new story to tell. How it came to be that the skin-stealer would bother their tribe no more and Howling Wolf, son of _Swift Coyote_ , was given a place among the _Tsistsistas_.

************

Mathias tossed a wadded up newspaper into the fire, lost deep in thought. A half-breed yee naagloshii, had been allowed to live alongside the Cheyenne? The very idea chilled his blood, shivers running down his spine. Taking in a _thing_ like that was not the same as assimilating a stolen white settler's child or enemy tribes' fallen warriors and young among their number. It was _yee naagloshii_! Mathias pondered the story Grandmother told and believed with his entire being that the warrior White Star should not have allowed the child to live and Swift Coyote should have done her duty to preserve and protect her Cheyenne tribe from the offspring of a _skinwalker_.

A rabid dog was put down and a cursed _thing_ was not coddled like an infant babe at the mothers’ breast. Grandmother said full-blooded yee naagloshii were dangerous, and powerful enemies. If that was in fact the truth, then why allow it to live? What reason did the three friends have to believe the half-blood would be any different from the rest of its kind? Mathias wondered in frustration. It made no sense. Not any more than the missionary-man and his singular act of senseless violence against the _Rez_ bitch whose life was already hard enough without his unwanted interference.

“What happened to the tribe Grandmother? Later, I mean,” Mathias asked unable to hold the question inside a moment long.

He felt he needed to know, it felt deeply important that he knew _everything_ he could about this strange happening Grandmother Istas spoke of. “Is there anything more to this story?”

“I do not know all things Mathias -- but I do know the tribe was massacred without cause or warning. Make of that what you will. Was it the half-bloods doing or some other chain of events? Who can say?” Grandmother sighed, shrugging her frail, bent shoulders as she spoke.

Mathias saw her shiver as a particularly strong gust of wind beat against the house and retrieved her plain brown shawl from the couch and draped it around her shoulders. She patted his hand before he retreated to his place by the fire.

“The stories survive because a Cheyenne woman named Still Water married into a Blackfoot tribe, escaping the slaughter by two months, or so the story goes. I was told this by my Grandmother and now I am telling you, my little doves.”

“Why did they let it live?” Mathias asked. 

“It was a baby!” May defended, clearly displeased at the idea that the half-blood should have been killed. Mathias did not share her concern but he saw no need to make it plain either. 

May was young and kind, it did not surprise him that she agreed with Swift Coyote and Little Fox. 

“Yeah, baby Hitler, or Mussolini, maybe,” Mathias grumbled, unable to resist pricking one little needle into the blank surface of her innocent optimism. 

“A mother's love spared the half-blood,” Grandmother broke in before they could continue their dispute. “Whether that was right or wrong it is not for us to decide. Little Fox said the Great Spirit wanted the child to live, who’s to say that she was wrong?” Grandmother asked, grinning at him with a light behind her old eyes that shone like that of a much younger woman with all the possibilities of the world in them.

It was infectious and Mathias grinned right back, toothy and carefree.

“There now,” Grandmother chuckled, a soft breath laugh as she patted his head and he was so lost in the moment he did not even mind.

“This world is a strange and puzzling place we travel, my little doves. It is full of many deep mysteries.”

Mathias tossed another piece of crumpled newspaper into the fire watching the edges burned and curled inward until they became ash. 

“Only a mother could love a monster -- a half-blood _skinwalker_ ,” he whispered under his breath but he knew Grandmother heard. For an old woman Grandmother Istas possessed both sharp eyes and keen ears.

“Perhaps, Mathias, perhaps,” Grandmother’s look was speculative and Mathias did not understand, _again_ , what was there to love about such a _thing_?

A monster was a monster, right?

Mathias thought about it, turning it over in his head and came away with the same conclusion, the potential danger such a being presented was too much to leave to chance.

It should have been destroyed.

Mathias tossed and turned that night, haunted by yellow coyote eyes gleaming in the darkness of his dreams. Nothing good could come from letting a skin-walker go free into their world. Someday that bell was going to toll and someone would have to pay the price for a mother’s mercy. He was certain of this but he was also certain that he was just a boy and there was nothing he could do.

Mathias sat up in bed, throwing off his covers. Slaying a skinwalker was beyond his abilities; he knew that much was true at least for now. He was only eleven years old and very aware of how much smaller and shorter he was in comparison to the bigger, older boys in his class. He would grow, in time, he knew so he let that thought go. He would not be young and small forever. 

Mathias stared sullenly out the window, watching the rain pelt the ground with hard splats and decided there was something he could do. He eased open his bedroom window and slipped outside into the rain. He could barely see where he was going but that was all right. He knew _the Rez_ like the back of his hand and in less than thirty minutes he had found the _Rez_ bitch and her puppies huddled between two boarded up and abandoned houses.

He had made up his mind that he had to do something as he lay in bed so he did not hesitate when the moment to act arrived. Stealthy and silent as a shadow he pried off the board, which secured the backdoor shut and with a lot of coaxing relocated the family into the abandoned house. He did not see the harm seeing as no one else would be using it for quite some time. He imagined the looks on his parents tired faces and knew they would not stand for it. They had enough mouths to feed, they would say. No, they would not have let him bring the _Rez_ bitch and its puppies to their yard so this would have to do. 

“It’s not a palace, but it is dry,” Mathias said absently stroking the rough fur of the _Rez_ bitch.

It was looking at him in such a manner that it made his heart sad. He had not done much, and he knew he should have done something sooner.

After saving the _Rez_ bitch and her pups he snuck out of the house more often and at odd hours to check on the family in the following weeks to come. His parents barely noticed but he was fully aware of Grandmother and her keen, watchful eyes. One the third day of the second week of this Grandmother gave him a loaf of bread and a side of turkey, chucked him under the chin and said “For the mamma and her pups, Matty.”

He froze, blinking a few times as he tried to figure out what had given him away, but Grandmother only smiled as she shook her head. 

“You have a gentle spirit, Mathias. Now, have you considered keeping on for yourself?”

“My parents-”

“Oh, you leave that to me, Matty, you leave that to me,” Grandmother said, patting his head. “It is only right that you should be allowed to keep at least one, it was an unexpected kindness you did for the poor things, one that was given without expectation of reward.”

Grandmother nodded, murmuring to herself, quiet enough that Mathias barely heard her words at all.

“Yes, and little May’s family could use one, too, to keep away the vermin you know?”

“May’s parents just lost their vermin chaser Rex to the cancer, they might let her have a new one, she did well with Rex” Mathias quickly agreed, as he realized he hadn’t thought far enough ahead. 

He hadn’t considered anything other than getting them grown and out of the wet and rain that night. They would need homes if they were to be spared the hardships of the hardy, tan colored _Rez_ bitch’s life.

“Good, I will speak with them first thing tomorrow,” Grandmother said and suddenly it wasn’t just him checking in and feeding the family. It was Grandmother Istas, May and he bringing food and attention to the puppies and the weary-eyed _Rez_ bitch whom watched the going on of the humans with a quietly grateful regard. 

Grandmother Istas, storyteller and co-conspirator began her work of gently nudging his parents towards acceptance. 

May’s parents, however, had needed none knowing the value of a well-trained dog to chase and kill the raccoon, rats, and opossums. Soon enough they were strong enough to leave the _Rez_ bitch and May picked the large brown male puppy for herself and her family, which were pleased with her choice. 

Mathias looked among their number and knew which he would take for his own yard once Grandmother had finished her work with his parents. The pups were soft and playful, always licking and nipping as they tumbled together across the floor, learning to bark and bare their teeth in play-acts of dominance. It was fun to watch them. 

Each day he looked at his Grandmother and she sadly shook her head and he understood. Knowing he could not wait any longer or else the pup's best chance at being taken into good homes would vanish he carefully loaded them up into a wheelbarrow and took them on a long walk to _Black Dog Animal Rescue_. It was many miles, but he could not drive and his parents would not take him. 

The people at the rescue were kinder than he might have expected, maybe they could see how unhappy he was about all of this and set aside their natural suspicion of unwanted puppies being thrust into their care. Maybe they were simply used to taking the unwanted cast offs of others.

Mathias thought of the _Rez_ bitch that he had led in with a tattered rope for a leash and he could not do it. He could not give her away to these people. She was not as young and pretty colored as the rest. He knew her chances were not good no matter how fair and good the people here tried to be. 

He returned home a little sad at the loss of the small ones but contented with the knowledge that he had done the best he could for them in the end. The _Rez_ bitch was the one he would have chosen anyhow.

“You will be Rez,” Mathias said, paused to look down at the dog that dutifully looked back and chuckled to himself. And it was decided; between them two that her name would be _Rez_ and he would do all he could for he even if she was not rightfully his.

Tired from all the walking, Rez’s leash of rope in his hand, Mathias almost walked right past his Grandmother. She was waiting for him on the front step, stern and serious enough in expression that it gave him pause.

“Grandmother?” he asked, beginning to worry.

Rez whined, licking the knuckle of his hand as his breath caught in his throat as he waited.

“You parents have given their final word,” Grandmother said, and he felt his heart drop to his knees as he began to doubt he might be allowed to keep old Rez off the streets and alleys.

“You have to give your word to train the dog and take care of its every need yourself, you must work to pay for its food and needs, can you agree to this Matty?” Grandmother asked.

“Yes!” Mathias said, his voice cracking with excitement.

“I see you chose the old one? How interesting. I look forward to seeing the man you will become,” Grandmother chuckled. 

************

Mathias tended to Rez for the rest of her days. He asked around for jobs and nothing was too much or to hard, which earned him a reputation as a hard worker that would catch the attention of then tribal police officer Sam Gray Wolf, son of Gil Gray Wolf who worked at the pottery store. Mathias hunted local vermin and pests to keep _Rez’s_ belly full.

It was sometimes hard but Mathias found he did not mind. It made him feel good to know that there had been _something_ good he could do and he had done it. It had been the right choice, he decided each time he watched _Rez_ leaping among the autumn leaves or romping with May’s Rex II. _Rez_ lived a long life and a better one that would have been possible for an ordinary Reservation stray, he knew that ant it made the loss that came later easier to bear.

In 1989, on a brisk spring evening _Rez_ lay down to sleep at the foot of Mathias bed, old and gray at the muzzle and haunches, never to awaken.

Mathias held her one last time, cold and stiff in his arms the light gone out forever from her eyes and quietly carried her to her favorite spot by a creek and buried her deep in the earth so her spirit might find peace in its favorite place where they had shared many happy times together splashing in the summer: he, May, Rex II, and old _Rez_.

He decided beneath the branches of a large oak tree that’s branches, which seemed to shield the stray tears that ran down his face from being seen, that he would not do that May had chosen to do.

He would never have another _Rez._

************

As he grew older, wiser, learning new stories at Grandmother’s knee Mathias would know there were many kinds of monsters in his world; many were of his own kind. But never, in all that time, would he forget the lessons his Grandmother taught him and May on those long winter nights. He believed, even as many winters passed and gray threaded his black hair, in the stories of his elders. Grandmother Istas was many things to many people but she did not _lie_.

Humans, some would claim, were the _worst_ of them all. But not Mathias, he remembered the stories. On bad days predatory eyes still crept through the corners of his dreams and on those nights he found no sleep no matter how hard he tried. There were other nights to when he stared into the darkness of his yard and felt something staring back.

_It is nothing, just a coyote or fox. Perhaps it is a wolf,_ Mathias told himself as he kept his lonely night watch, the blanket loosely draped over his shoulders a bizarre feeling of exposure washing over him, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle oddly. On those nights he kept _Rez_ close to his side. Hidden from his parents between the cover provided by the bed and the nightstand. He told himself on those nights his mind was playing tricks. But he did not fully believe that. He knew too much now.

He never spoke of those events to Grandmother, she had become old and frail and he did not wish to see the worry deepen the lines of her kindly face. She had always been good to him; there was no need to trouble her thoughts with dark, but baseless, suspicions. He had yet to see or hear anything and for all that part of him wanted to be big and brave and kill a skinwalker the older, wiser part of him hoped they and such things as that might never darken his path.

Mathias turned twenty-one with a BA in criminal psychology, Jonas, Ada, and Grandmother conspired behind his back and in the end the only choice he had was to bury his pride and make sure their earnings were put to good use. Shortly after graduation Sam Gray Wolf approached him about taking a job on _the Rez_ , giving a long speech about helping his people, and Mathias accepted.

“You had me at I have a job for you,” Mathias had replied and both of them had laughed.

“Good, I think the tribal police could use some new blood, someone who is not hardened by the job and is willing to work hard for what they believe,” Sam had said when the laughter died down.

“Can I ask? Why me?”

“I remember you and that Rez dog of yours back in the day when you were just a scrawny, scrappy kid with to much pride – how you worked hard to keep the animal fed and well behaved, all alone? I noticed and I wasn't the only one. You did not have to do that, hell kid, many walked right past the animal. But not you, so that’s ‘why you’ I guess. You _did_ something even when you didn’t have to, and here we are.”

Mathias had blinked; taken aback that Sam would remember or had even known about what he had done for _Rez_ and her pups, all those years back.

“Yeah, here we are,” Mathias had finally agreed.

“I expect good things from you, kid.”

“I won’t let you down,” Mathias had vowed, meaning every word.

Sam Gray Wolf had just grinned as he'd shaken his hand, a knowing glint in his eye that made Mathias determined to live up to the older man's expectations. He decided if he couldn’t kill _skinwalker’s_ or _wendigo’s_ then he would put bad people behind bars. It was as good a start as any to helping his people. 

Mathias slept better after that, long and soundly, undisturbed by the yellowed gleam of coyote eyes gleaming in the dark of night. But he never forgot. 


	2. To See Between Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walt stares into the horizon and contemplates the manners and ways in which a life can be changed. And the temptation of red, red, apples. 
> 
> He planned to meet Martha Cadence Brent beneath the apple tree to share stolen kisses and peach jam. 
> 
> What he didn't plan for? Their secret interlude being disrupted by a Cheyenne warrior apparition.

**_Absaroka County, Wyoming : 1981_ **

It was the nicest day Walt had seen in a while; the sky was so blue it felt like a veil to the heavens had cracked open. A mild breeze kept the heat from becoming too much and the overhanging shade of the apple tree provided the rest. And then there was Martha, who’d asked him to picnic with her for a while by the creek winding through her family property. It was a good spot she’d chosen for them, overlooking rolling hills and the white sparkle of sunlight across the water. 

Walt was a man who could appreciate a good view in a quiet spot away from the usual noise and rush of the town doings. At that moment Walt felt he was seventeen going on thirty and all of his life was stretching out ahead. Unavoidable change lingered on the horizon driving a crack between the two halves of his life. On one side of this fracture was then and all that had been, and on the other now carrying with it all the potential of what might be.

He could feel it in the air, the same way he smelt the atmospheric shift before a heavy rain came down on Absaroka. This knowing didn’t make it any easier to bear. He’d never been a man partial to change.

It’s why as a child he’d worn the same old boots until his feet ached something fierce. Maybe in his child's mind he’d thought if he didn’t buy new shoes the world would have to slow down a bit, let him adjust before it made his voice crack embarrassingly and his limbs all knees and elbows with no muscle. A terrible fate when one wanted to be as big and strong as their father.

Or maybe the answer was simpler: his own stupid stubborn pride.

He wore those damned boots until he couldn’t wear them anymore, forced by the inevitability of growth to alter course. A captain choosing the smoother seas rather than risk capsizing his ship. His feet had been much obliged even if his fathers' pockets had been poorer for it.

He knows it to be one of his many failings, this reticence to changing. To be fair his father's grumbling about having to buy new ones after Walt and those damned blue boots had reached an impasse, his ma’s fussing necessitating change, hadn’t helped matters none at the time. Still, like it or not change was-a-coming and he could no more halt it than lasso _Pleiades_ from the night sky. 

He’d been expected to work his way through high school paying for _‘extra expenses’_ as his father liked to call it and he was glad for the experience now, even if he hadn’t been at the time. Juggling homework, studies, and working hours hadn’t been easy. In fact it had been hard as hell some days, but he’d got it done.

Walt was to be eighteen soon enough. It was a prospect that excited him and terrified him in equal measure. He was mentally braced for the coming impact, it would hit as swift and sudden as a Southwest monsoon. Not all change had to be bad, though.

His ma had been right about that sure enough. 

In fact, he suspected it could be really good, if Martha said yes. There was an important question rattling around in the back of his head. One he meant to voice as soon as he worked up the courage. It wasn’t much of a plan, but then, Martha had always been awful good at that -- the planning. She might have a few thoughts he ought to hear. 

He glanced up, the bright red of a low hanging apple calling to him. It was tempting and it took some effort to ignore it. The apple wasn’t quite ready to be plucked yet, it shone cherry bright, but he knew it wasn’t _quite_ there yet. He remained where he was knowing it would be ready sooner or later and then they’d come back and feast together on it. The sweetly crispness would taste all the better and juicier on the tongue for having waited to share with Martha. 

Martha was running late. Walt stared up at the blue, blue sky that was a pale shadow of the beauty he found in the constellation of her eyes. He was no Shakespeare and he knew it; he kept his romantic rubbish to himself. Though, that didn’t mean the sentiment wasn’t there. He hoped she knew at least a little of what it meant to him, being the one holding her in his arms as the world quietly shuffled on by. He knew in his heart that she must know by now. She was smart, and clever, and equally curious about the mechanics of the world they lived in. She was more than a pretty face.

Knowing he was the one she _chose_? He was lucky and he damn well knew it for a fact. Wouldn't trade boots with any man in the world. Martha _was_ his red, red apple, everything he didn’t know he needed. But he, they, had decided to wait. There would be no snakes in their garden. 

Walt was acting on orders to keep their plans under wraps until the eleventh hour was upon them. He didn’t care about sneaking too much but it was how Martha wanted it for now and he’d abide by her decision. There was sense to it, too. They, that being Martha’s parents, didn’t know what she was about of course on account of them not liking him too much. 

On a day like this, though, he didn’t let it trouble him. In the end, Martha was her own woman who made her own choices. If he proved himself to be the kind of man she could spend her life with, well, then they’d be fine he supposed. 

It was sultry enough outdoors that his shirt was beginning to stick to his back and Walt spared a moment to be glad for the _Axe_ deodorant he’d seen fit to slap on before heading out the door. Still, for Martha he’d take up picnicking in the muddy, crocodile-infested bayous of Louisiana. A little summer sun wasn’t going to keep him away, _no siree_. 

Walt felt eyes on him and switched from sky-gazing to admiring a heavenly sight of a more earthy sort than could be spied by looking to the Gods. She looked prettier than a Sunday Church decked out in a simple white sundress that showed off her knees and the shapely line of her calves. Her blonde hair was all loose and wild in a way her mother most certainly hated but Walt _adored_. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said in greeting, lazily rolling to his feet, taking the basket from her hands and placing a chase kiss to her offered cheek. Walt caught hints of _Jo Malone_ perfume on her blond, _Shirley Temple_ locks and smiled. He loved that stuff on her, which was just as well because it was the only perfume she ever wore.

“Sky-gazing again?” Martha asked, laying out the blue-checkered tablecloth they used on these little secret rendezvous of theirs. 

“Mmhm,” he replied, watching her set up the picnic.

They’d done it properly at first, with him coming around the house for Sunday dinners and meetups at the town's cafe but Martha’s parents were bound and determined to dislike him. They kept hoping their only daughter would choose similarly. It hadn’t happened yet so they didn’t make a fuss anymore but they sure didn’t do out of their way to be sociable either. 

Walt didn’t hold it against them too badly, supposing they thought she could do better than a Longmire, without much to his name besides his good word, and forgot to ask Martha what it was _she_ wanted out of all this. Martha would get this flustered look of patient annoyance when they were acting out like this and he hated seeing her put out. So here they were instead. 

Martha was laying out their stolen feast as they took to enjoying their stolen time. Perfectly cut ham and roast-beef sandwiches dressed with mozzarella cheese, red onions, pickles, and bits of crisp lettuce and small glass jar brimming with her special, homemade peach jam. She’d won town fairs on the stuff, too. He’d been there, among the spectators, clapping her on from the sidelines when she was awarded the first prize.

Walt knew it could just as easily have tasted lemon-bitter, sour on the tongue, and he'd have grinned and borne it with the good manners his parents instilled in him to be a gentleman. Martha could serve him up burnt toast and runny eggs and he would have the good sense to not complain. She was the only woman other than his mother who had bothered to cook for him from time to time and wasn’t about to get finicky about details. That would have been in poor taste considering she always looked at him when he took the first bite as if he were the judge declaring first prize.

He could stomach burnt toast but not her disappointment.

Walt smiled at the feast appearing right under his nose and his stomach rumbled its appreciation, too. 

Martha plucked another glass jar from the assorted goods packed into her little basket and Walt’s eyes widened. “Well now, is that what I think it is?” he asked.

“I know how fond you are of peach -- and of eating it straight out of the jam jar!” she laughed, passing him a small spoon to go with the small jar. It felt a bit unwieldy, tiny and thin in his big hands, but he made do. He had a weakness for the damned stuff and Martha indulged it.

“Have you thought about what comes after, Walter?” Martha asked, sliding over to join him in leaning against the wide trunk of the apple tree. 

“Some,” he said. 

“Have you?” Walt asked, half turning his face so he could see her better.

“ _Some_ ,” she shot back, elbowing him in the ribs until he cracked a smile.

Walt relented, folding like a stack of cards, until her soft, questioning eyes. It was hard to refuse her anything, even his rambling thoughts.

“Maybe take in some college experiences now that high school is over…” he said, feeling his words out and knowing the truth in them the moment they were spoken. She was good for him in that way. Always gave him room to organize his thoughts but didn’t let him wiggle out from actually _saying_ them, either.

“But eventually I want to get a job at the local police department, maybe see if Sheriff Lucian will take on a greenhorn deputy.”

“That sounds like a really good plan,” Martha replied, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I think you’re just the kind of man this county needs, Walter Longmire.”

“Lucien won’t be sheriff forever you know. You could be the one wearing that badge someday if that is what you want?” Martha asked.

Walt mulled it over in his head as his hazy _might-do_ thoughts began to solidify into a plan of action. He also realized that h _e did_ want that, a lot. It would be a good way to help the people of his town and to give back some of the good will he’d been shown over the years.

“You know what, sweetheart? I think I do.”

“Hmm, good, you’d be good at it, what with how you’re always figuring out _‘who's done it’_ in the books we’ve read, you could just do it in _real life_ instead.”

He nodded along as she spoke and not because he wasn’t listening, but because he was and she was _right_. There was a lot of practical sense to what she was saying. Martha wasn’t one for hollow words and empty flattery. It was one of the things he loved about her aside from her cute smile. 

He _was_ good at solving those kinds of things, which meant it might be worth looking into more later on down the road.

“Walt?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel like something’s missing?” Martha asked, twining their hands together. 

Enjoying the chaste intimacy he almost didn’t hear her question, lost in the scent of her, and the feel of her hand. It was so much smaller and daintier than his own, which were big, sun-tanned tanned and rough with callouses. She had a faraway look in her sky-colored eyes looking like she was a million miles away for all that he held her hand in his own.

It set his heart racing in a quiet panic.

The picnic had even been her idea this time. 

“Missing? What do you mean by that?”

“Like...there’s a shadow where you know someone ought to be? But they’re not there, so there’s this little empty space where their shadow falls...Oh,” she broke off, looking at Walt’s confused, alarmed face.

He tried his best to school it into something other than deer-in-the-headlights confusion but he didn’t imagine he did a good job of it. 

“Oh, never mind me, I was just wandering with the fairies thinking about nonsense,” Martha sighed, shaking her head. 

“Are you...not happy?” Walt asked because it had never once occurred to him that Martha might not be as sure and certain about them as he was.

“Happy? Oh, honey, I’m plenty happy with you.”

“Then…” Walt began, wetting his lips as he tried to figure out where her thoughts were coming from. What was it that she felt was missing? There were times he wondered if he would ever really understand the working of her mind. Sheriff Lucien, when he’d been into his cups, was fond of saying it wasn’t for man to _understand_ the fairer sex. The rest had devolved into gently intended vulgarity that didn’t beat repeating. 

“Sometimes I walk through the town or look out at the road leading to _the Rez_ and I have the strangest feeling come over me -- like I ought to know the path better than I do. Or when we’re handing out at the bluffs I sometimes turn to your left -- as if…”

Walt closed his eyes because he began to understand. It would seem old Lucien could be wrong -- sometimes. Walt knew what Martha was talking about, having experienced the phenomena himself. It was if the world, for a single instant, was off-kilter. It had a singularly unpleasant feel. 

Absolute loneliness often followed in the wake of those happenings. He suspected he would never know why, too. Hamlet, the poor sod, had gotten one thing right, _there were more things in heaven and earth_ than the philosophers had managed to yet dream up _or_ explain. 

Walt nodded, picking up where Martha had left off. “It’s turning to speak to someone who isn’t there, was _never_ there in the first place. You do it and you don’t know why because you're alone, or it’s just us fooling around at the bluffs,” Walt finished, the words tumbling out in a mad rush as he vented something that had been on his mind for a while. 

“Yeah, like that. Do you think I’m crazy, off with the fairies again as mom likes to say?” she asked, peering up at him through her lashes, an open vulnerability in her heart-shaped face framed with a golden halo. It made him want to protect her from everything in the world.

“No, you’re not crazy, Martha, not any more so than I am.”

“But do you get what I’m trying to explain? I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of it, to be honest. It’s just... a feeling. You get those don’t you, something you just know in your gut?” Martha asked.

Walt pursed his lips, faint lines puckering at the corner of his eyes as he considered Martha’s words. He had a fair notion of what she was talking about -- more so than he felt comfortable voicing. Every now and then he’d stop what he was doing and look around himself with this bone-deep idea that something was just a little _off_ . His thoughts would turn to the Cheyenne reservation, or as the local Indian kids called it _the Rez,_ and a feeling washed over him.

He knew a few of the kids from _the Rez_ but none of them well enough to instill this deep nostalgia over a place and people he’d never really been allowed to know. He couldn’t miss something he didn’t have or know but there was a shadow, a blanket draped over his mind, where he imagined that missing something might have belonged, in a different time.

“I don’t know, honey. Maybe?” Walt finally said. He didn’t like thinking about it too much so he put it off to the side. Buried it in a box that would remain unopened. 

As they reclined under their apple tree the air around them grew thick and charged with energy. Walt noticed the change; it was a sweet earthy scent. Walt felt a lightheadedness wash over him as he lay with Martha curled in the circle of his arms, their bodies propped by the apple tree. It was then that he saw something from the corner of his eyes.

He squinted, leaning forward as he scrambled to get a better look and immediately lurched forward placing his body squarely between Martha and the newcomer. His hand dropping to the small caliber gun he carried. Wyoming wasn't so small a town that bad things didn't happen, and their were more dangers in the world than the bear and coyote that occasionally popped out from the woods. 

A man was standing no more than three feet away. It was odd to chance across someone else way out where they were but not cause for alarm. The problem was this man didn’t look like anyone from around Absaroka. Walt prided himself on knowing the faces in town; this was not one of them.

The _other_ odd thing was the man looked like something from out of an old western film poster.

He had copper toned skin and wore traditional Cheyenne clothes. Like he was dressed for the seventeen hundreds. It looked a bit like something the original Plains People of Wyoming before General Custer and the _Battle of Little BigHorn_ might have worn. Walt couldn't be sure but it appeared authentic, the clothes, the fringes, everything. But that only made everything about the situation stranger.

Walt was quick to notice the Indian had sharp clean-cut features and an athletic build. They were the kinds of whipcord muscles and sharply defined leanness that didn’t come from a weekly gym workout.

Black hair fell down past his shoulders with a lone eagle feather hanging from a _Henry Winchester Rifle_. That’s what really caught Walt's eye. An old model, from the look of it. He eye-balled it and suspected it to be a .44 caliber rimfire breech-loading lever action.

He barely resisted the urge to whistle. Might have anyhow, if he didn’t think his actions might be misconstrued. Hell, if he were in the other man’s moccasins he’d definitely be misconstruing all the staring. The Indian currently had the weapon slung across his back; the mahogany wood stock rested against his shoulder blade.

A thrill shot through Walt at seeing such a piece from the days of antiquity. 

_It was a beauty, that’s for sure,_ Walt thought. Then it registered. How was he seeing it? Or this strange Indian? Walt knew he hadn’t nodded off under the apple tree. There’d been no sign of this man’s approach, no sound, and there should have been because of all the dried grass and summer brush. Between one blink and the next he had simply been standing there, staring at them.

The Indian was staring back at Walt now, too. He was stock still, unblinking, almost unmoving but for the steady rise and fall of his bare chest. There was something awfully familiar about him, too. 

It was something about the dark, piercing eyes boring into him. Walt didn’t know how it could be possible. He didn’t know any Indians who wore traditional clothes outside of historical reenactments. Hell, he didn’t know many Indians at all. Though, he wished he knew someone with a piece like the one this man had slung over his shoulder like every day armament.

Walt's eyes tripped their way down to the blood-smeared knife the Indian clutched; the red splashed across the other man's knuckles and felt his own face pale. 

He was so vividly real Walt's heart began racing like a pack horse being driven uphill and his eyes widened. But he wasn’t scared, which was the damnedest thing of all. Walt didn’t know _what_ he was, but he wasn’t scared.

The Indian looked at him, frowned, his brows drawing like thunderclouds before the expression smoothed out and he said a name Walt had not heard since he was a gangly boy. 

“Wally?” the Indian asked, as if he _knew_ him. Or at least thought he did. The childish nickname sounded doubly strange coming from his mouth. English hardly being his first language, made the name over pronounced and stretched but it was unmistakably _his_ name. 

Walter opened his mouth, to say what, he would never find out.

“Walt?” Martha called out and he turned, snapping back towards her direction. In the second it took for him to turn his head and check on her whoever it had been, _whatever_ it had been was gone. In seconds the Cheyenne warrior, and he _knew_ that man was both, had vanished like a mirage or illusions trick.

“Did you see that? Tell me you saw that too?” Walt asked, breathless with excitement and wonder over the strange experience.

Martha nodded, curiosity gleaming brightly in her eyes. 

“Yes, I did,” Martha replied with a small grin curving the cupid's bow of her mouth. “He spoke your name, _Wally_ , that’s what he said, wasn’t it?” Martha asked. 

“Yeah, I guess he did. I don’t know how but he knew my name,” Walter muttered, still staring at the place where the Indian had stood. “He knew my name!” Walt repeated, trying to unravel the mystery of the vanishing Indian.

He got up and walked so he was standing close beside where the apparition had stood and knelt down to inspect the ground. There were tracks in the dirt. Moccasins didn’t leave much of a mark on the earth but they did leave some if one looked close and Walt had his face parallel to the ground as he searched for a logical solution to an impossible happening. One minute the Indian was there and the next he was gone like so much mist and fog. 

“What kind of ghost leaves tracks?” Walt asked, flicking a look toward Martha who had risen to peer down at the dirt with him. 

“I really don’t know Walt,” Martha admitted with a shrug. “Most people see the _Woman in White_ or _Wendigo’s_ if they’re really unlucky, but not us,” she chuckled, taking the events in stride. It was a very Martha thing to do, although, he felt jealousy stir at the hot blush of her cheeks and the mischievous grin perched on her lips.

“Wendigo’s, huh?” Walt asked, muting his skepticism for Martha’s sake. He might not believe every hair-brained account people reported but it always seemed to him that there must be a flesh and blood creature that inspired the local myths about monsters roaming the edges of _the Rez_.

The trouble law enforcement faced was no one wanted to talk about it. He knew this from hearing the sheriff bitching about _mystic mumbo-jumbo_ keeping him from getting anywhere with the animal attack that half blinded a man walking back to _the Rez_ at night last week. He hadn’t crossed into Indian territory when the attack occurred leaving the problem with Sheriff Lucien instead of Tribal Police. The victim was reportedly so terrified that he’d been shaking worse than an addict chasing his next high. 

‘Couldn’t have gotten anything out of him with pliers,’ Sheriff Lucien had complained. ‘You never go walking down that way after dark Walter, I don’t know what it is but there is something that takes people, just snatched ‘em up and drags ‘em off into the dark and the families never see them again, so don’t you got out that way after dark, kid,’ Sheriff Lucien had said, a little drunk and a lot more sentimental than Walt was used to the older man being. 

Walt had given his word and he’d kept to it. No use tempting trouble.

Walt chewed on his lip and folded his arms across his chest, watching Martha from below the brim of his tan-colored Stetson. He didn’t think Wendigo’s were supposed to look so human in proportion. The Indian they’d seen tonight had not looked like any kind of monster, just a man. A handsome man -- nothing more.

_And nothing less,_ a little voice in the back of his head whispered. He grudgingly conceded that much and recognized that what they knew now about this incident was likely all they ever would know. Whoever the Indian had been he died a long, long time ago.

“I think I like our handsome, half-naked Indian warrior much better than either of those, don’t you?” Martha chuckled, still musing over their encounter. Her eyes excitedly scanning the surrounding area as if she thought the apparition might just pop back into their lives again.

Walt did not think he would but he kept his thoughts to himself. Martha was cute with her nose scrunched up in thought, pink resting high on her cheeks in breathless excitement. He couldn’t even be properly jealous. 

The man, whoever he was, was a ghost. It seemed in poor taste to harbor resentment for the long since dead.

Walt arched his eyebrow. “Our?” he asked with hard emphasis when her words finally caught up with him and his own internal musings.

“Yes, _our_ , Walt. Now, I wonder if there is any history connected to this plot of land…” Martha muttered, thinking aloud. 

Walt sighed, knowing that she would spend the next week researching the family property and any Indian connections. Which meant _he_ would be spending the next week helping her to do it, too. Still, there were worse ways to spend a week. Martha liked to know things just as much as he did. Besides, he was curious. 

************

In the weeks to come, the Indian haunted his nights and his days as they dug through Martha’s newest obsession; historical records of the indigenous peoples who had inhabited Wyoming before white settlers conquered the land, and in due course, the peoples who lived off of it.

He learned many things, most of which were sad, that public schools didn’t offer.

_‘_ _Taming the west,’_ they called it oftentimes citing _'Manifest Destiny'_ as the great cure all for any moral quandaries over stealing land or breaking treaties with the Native Americans.

_He learned, 'The only good Indian is a dead Indian,’_ as quoted General Sherman and felt deeply unsettled by the forgotten past. He turned the page so he would not have to look at the words.

They were not unknown to him, living so close to _the Rez,_ he could not help noticing the disparities between them. 

************

It was unsurprising that he fell into dreams of the Cheyenne. What did surprise him was how he’d wake in a fevered state with the impression of the warriors face burned into his retinas even when his eyes were closed.

Walt found his head was now engulfed in the visceral impression of those high cheekbones, sharp eyes, and indisputable raw masculine strength. It was an alarming cocktail of lust that he couldn't fully shake once he’d awoken. He had to wipe sweat from his brow and clean his sheets after such awakenings. It became one of the rare secrets he kept from Martha, these nighttime emissions of pent desire.

He had to take _cold_ showers after he woke from those dreams. His prick was often hard and aching with a need so powerful it almost stole his breath. It was all very strange and embarrassing so Walt kept it to himself.

The Indian man, whoever he had been, was attractive and Walt could, however grudgingly, admit that even he could see that. He was not given to lying to himself which left him no choice. He had to accept the fact that, however unexpected, he had found the man to be striking. 

Martha would be quick to agree, he was certain of it, which didn’t help matters.

He hadn’t missed her sharply indrawn breath at all that bare skin, or the other man’s fine clean-cut features. Walt viciously stamped down his jealousy as it had no place between him and Martha. It was both hypocritical and misplaced. The Cheyenne warrior had been at best an apparition of a man long since dead.

Walt consoled himself with the knowledge that he had nothing to be concerned about. Neither he nor Martha would ever see the Indian again and that was something he was dead certain of. With a will, he set aside his growing curiosity. He loved Martha and there was nothing on this earth that would ever change that fact. She was his heart and his hope, the woman he planned to build a life and a family with.

Whatever strange draw had compelled him to look at that man like _that_? It was a one-time deal.

To be sure he’d observed a few of the other boys horsing around in the streets. Sweat had been beading on their skin and half-naked bodies as they took to stripping off their t-shirts for the three pretty girls watching from the sidelines. The boys he objectively conceded were as fit and attractive as any other of the male persuasion. 

He had felt nothing; no stirrings of interest were roused in his belly by this unobtrusive watching and he considered the matter closed. A one-off fluke and a few wet-dreams did not make a habit. He loved Martha and there wasn’t anything in the world that could change that -- he was sure. 

Martha, however, was still very much in academic thrall of the Indian apparition they had spied from below their apple tree. She wanted to know who he was, feeling certain that if she just knew his name somehow that would make it all make _sense_.

Walt, for his part, wanted to leave sleeping dogs, and Indian apparitions, to rest in peace but he also wasn’t going to let her investigate alone. Which is how he ended up tagging along to her trips to the small town library carrying her bag and a chin-high stack of books. 

By sheer dumb luck, he and Martha stumbled across a history book that mentioned, in the margins, that a massacre had occurred on the land where the apple tree grew and that there had been no recorded survivors. He imagined the Indian how full of life he’d seemed and felt a little sad. But soon his stomach set to rumbling and he decided he kneaded food for his belly, and not his brain. Which, all told, had had enough of musty old books for the moment.

“Aren’t you getting hungry?” he asked, gently trying to tug her away from where she was hidden behind her barricaded paper and books. 

“Not yet, Walter,” she insisted, flicking him an indulgent glance of chastisement. 

“We’ll go soon,” she promised. 

He let the matter drop knowing that there was no changing her course once it was set. He and Martha poured over it for hours trying to find out the faintest clue about the tribe involved but in typical settler fashion, the politest term used in the book was Indian, when it wasn’t employing less politically correct language, which was as distinctive as the writer felt they needed to be. In the end, they knew neither name nor tribe, ending their search much the same as when they had begun it.

“Can I ask why you’re so determined about this business?” Walt asked, pulling out a chair across from her. “I’m not saying I’m not curious too, but you seem…”

“Obsessed?” Martha asked.

“No, just driven.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” Martha admitted. “It felt like the right thing to do somehow, that’s all I can say, and that’s the honest truth, Walt.”

Martha sighed, quietly closing the book, and Walt knew that it was done. There would be no more late nights spent pouring over pages or carrying stacks of books. Walt could honestly say he was sorry it ended this way for her, no name and no answers, but he was also awfully glad to have her beautiful blues turned back towards him instead of lines of words and strange Indian men who vanished into thin air. 

Having her attention back was a relief gently circled by tendrils of regret that whispered tantalizing _‘what ifs’_ in his ears. Martha had led the charge all right but he hadn’t minded tagging along. Still, he knew that the closing of the book and the shrug of her shoulders said she was done with her quest for knowledge having exhausted all the available resources.

Martha had decided, finally, to let sleeping bears lie. No more chasing after Cheyenne warrior apparitions for them. It was kind of a shame really. He’d wanted to have a name to place with that face. The man had left something of a lasting impression. He’d been the only man that had caused Walt’s blood to quicken like _that_. It was hard to forget -- an incident like that. 

Martha’s obsession passed hands and the irony of it was not lost to Walt.

He kissed Martha goodbye and left her at the doorstep to her house before turning and finding his own way home for the evening. His parents were spending a rare weekend vacationing in Durant leaving him alone in the house. He was glad for the quietness tonight as he set his wayward thoughts in order. 

Walt spent a long time just staring absently into the crackling fireplace before he made up his mind about what to do with the face haunting his nights. Walt pulled out his old art class utensils, pencil perched between his fingers and charcoal laid to the side as he set lead to paper. He would purge the image by putting it to paper. Memorialize it, too. But he wouldn't come to figure that out until later.

He threw the first three attempts into the fire watching the white paper blacken and curl as the orange flames devoured it. It frustrated him that it still wasn’t close enough to what he recalled. Drawn in clean black and white lines the apparition took on a frightening countenance and Walt didn't like it. For all that the experience had been uncanny he had not felt threatened. He’d had loaded firearms waved in his face before; he knew the adrenaline rush of fear for one's life. This had not been that.

It just wasn’t _right_ ; what he felt hadn’t been fear. He didn’t have a name for it as of yet, but it wasn’t fear. 

Besides, a lack of understanding on _his_ part shouldn’t devolve straight to fright, right? There were lots of things in this world that he didn’t understand; this apparition was an unsolved mystery the universe had seen fit to drop in his lap. As he stared at his drawing pad he realized he was grateful, it was heartening to know there were still things to learn and that for sixty seconds he had seen into something impossible and strange and frighteningly wonderful: a glimpse into the forgotten past. 

The fourth attempt at a sketch was no good, either. Walt tore the sheet from his notepad and threw it into the fireplace with a grunt of frustration. 

_It still isn’t right,_ Walt thought to himself, closing his eyes as he replayed the moment over and over. 

He was no _Michelangelo_ , but he could do better, he was sure.

The fire was fed well that night.

Walt drifted off, warmed by the fireplace that cast shadows over the bruises smudged below his eyes and a seemingly permanent scowl stamped across his face. 

In the onset of sleep the last rendering he created was spared the fire.

Consciousness leisurely drifted back in like a low tide lapping at the sand banks and Walt shook off the sluggish lethargy of sleep. His attention was immediately drawn to the notepad clutched in his hand. A slow grin spread across his face, a hint of teeth showing as he nodded to himself in his bedroom. There, finally, he’d gotten it right. The Indian from the _Apple Tree Incident_ stared back at Walt, grim and unsmiling with piercing dark eyes that seemed to follow Walt around the room.

Fierce, but not fearsome. And if a person looked close, leaned in and squinted hard, there was to be seen the faint curl of what might have been a grin. At least, Walt liked to think it was.

Walt pleased with his rendering tucked it into his hardback Whitman book so it would remain safe from unwanted scrutiny. This undertaking had just been for him. Someday he’d show Martha. But for now?

It was just _his_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: While Chapter 1 "Stories My Grandmother Told" was a form of "origin" story for the narrative Chapter 2 "To See Between Worlds" will hopefully explain how Henry's absence is _felt_ by Walt and Martha. Even though they don't quite know how to explain the feeling. 
> 
> This is something very new I'm trying out? If you feel like sharing your thoughts [or questions] feel free to drop me a line below! 
> 
> A few sources:
> 
> Moss, Matthew. “The Long and Winding Story of the Winchester Rifle.” Popular Mechanics, Popular Mechanics, 14 Nov. 2017, www. popularmechanics.com/military/weapons/a23149/ winchester-rifle/.
> 
> All That's Interesting. “Meet The Wendigo – The Cannibalistic Monster Of The North.” All That's Interesting, All That's Interesting, 12 Sept. 2019, allthatsinteresting. com/wendigo. 
> 
> “'The Only Good Indian Is a Dead Indian': Sheridan, Irish-America and the Indians.” History Ireland, 9 June 2016, www. historyireland. com/18th-19th-century-history/the-only-good-indian-is-a-dead-indian-sheridan-irish-america-and-the- indians/.


	3. Friends Found, Friends Lost (Somewhere In Time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 1721 and Howling Wolf knows that he is neither world nor dog. 
> 
> Too human -- or too monstrous because of the blood in his veins has left him an outcast among his tribe. He is a boy without a place to belong or friends to share his life with.
> 
> Until, one day, Howling Wolf finds a strange rock by the river and everything changes.

**_Absaroka, Wyoming: 1712_ **

He was sky-gazing again. It was the perfect day for it, too. The gap between the trees let him see well into the clear blueness above where the eagles and thunderbirds soared on wind currents cawing and screeching as they hunted from their skies. He would not care to be the mouse their golden eyes lighted upon or to feel the squeeze of their talons cracking ribs as strong hooked beaks splintered brains. He had yet to see such a bird but his mother and Little Fox said they were as real as hawks and vultures and he had no reason to disbelieve their words.

Howling Wolf knew he had to be on guard and kept his ears trained for the telltale sign of moccasin encased feet treading on the dried grass and brush surrounding his hide-away. His mother's husband, White Star, would knock him about the head should he catch him wasting time in this manner. 

He did not escape camp _only_ to laze about like a hibernating bear. Sometimes the stares of others became too much and he needed space to _breathe_ ; at those times camp became suffocating. His chest tightened painfully and his breath grew short and faint. When he felt this beginning to happen he slipped away to center himself without watchful, _judging_ , eyes hard on his back. It was this that brought him here to the newly sprung grass beneath his back and a smooth pebble in his right hand. It was small enough to fit easily in the palm rough edges worn down from having lain at the bottom of a river. It was nothing special on its own. It was what it did that mattered. He refocused his attention to it and not _them_. He breathed in and tightened his grip around the pebble, released his breath, and loosened his grip. 

The repetitive actions soothed the tension constricting his chest. In those moments before it eased up he felt as if he _were_ a mouse trapped in the tangle of a snake's coil. The more he struggled, the harder the knot was drawn like a handed-mans noose around his neck. And then it passed and he could _breathe_.

He hated that it happened at all; he did not care to be watched as he slowed the rapid pounding of his heart that became so overwhelmingly loud it was all he could hear. _Thump, thump, thump,_ hard and fast beats like the staccato rhythm of a war drum. He thought of the pebble and only the pebble and let the rest of the world fall into a white winter haze blanketed with snow. This calmed his mind and his body; it allowed them to return to work as one.

In truth he felt a little bad knowing his mother was busy foraging for roots and berries they could eat and the rest would be used in trade with white settlers or fur trappers met along the way. But it was not enough to return.

Still, he did not expect to be caught unaware by White Star or any other man looking for an excuse to box his ears red. 

He had keen ears able to hear far beyond what others considered normal. It was not unusual for him to hear the scurrying of the red fox or the soft pitter-patter of rabbits anxious to escape the hunters that traveled on four legs and those that walked on two. He and his mother rarely went without. White Star liked to boast otherwise and he dared not contradict him; mother would gently squeeze his hand and he would bite his tongue. He said nothing but he knew the truth and that was enough. 

If he was to be reviled for not being full-blooded Cheyenne he might as well have a few useful skills to show for it. Something he could claim besides the ache where rocks had struck his ribs and the deep hollowness within his chest. 

Escape settled the restless wildness that stirred in his chest like the slow awakening of a slumbering bear in the heart of winter. The bear inside him was _always_ hungry. But it wanted what it could never have, what Howling Wolf had reconciled as lost to him long ago. 

Being able to be able to do this? To lay back and stare up at the wide endless blue that stretched out above the sparse treetops calmed his more reckless nature; the side of him that bore little interest in following common conventions. 

Lone wolf, mother called him, saying that was what she should have named him at birth because he had long since given up fitting himself to the mold of the other children. Always going off on his own into the woods to play and observe the world around him.

He was always watching, always listening, but seldom _talking_.

His birth name was no longer fitted to the man he was becoming. Soon he could do a vision quest and see if a new name would find its way to him. But it would not be today. Today he leaned back into the earth and stared up into the brightness of the sky and breathed in the scent of the coming spring and the earthy richness of the dirt.

He imagined some might feel small in the face of that wide expanse of endless blue that stretched out farther than the eye could see but not him; he felt only relief. What was he but one small piece in the greater picture? 

It was a pleasing thought. 

If he did not matter so much, one way or the other, then by definition it could not make a difference that his mother had not seen fit to drown him as a babe in the river. That she had allowed no one else to do it in her stead. 

In the scheme of things what was he but one being. He did not understand the fears of his tribe. No matter how hard he starred in the rivers and creeks they passed following the buffalo and other wild game of the plains he could not find in his reflection it was what _they_ saw. 

He saw only a boy with angular features, similar to that of many boys his own age and identically dark eyes and black hair. He knew he was not a proper _yee naagloshii_ \-- if he were he would _change_ what they saw until it was acceptable. But he could not; in the end, he only ever glimpsed himself staring back in the still waters.

Hawk Woman tolerated his presence, no more, no less. As she was the matriarch of their clan the rest followed in her example. Howling Wolf knew he should be grateful, he knew well the story of _Swift Coyote and the Skin-Walker_ , but he was not. It was wrong of him, but he could not change what he felt as a deep wounding. Such staring and shunning were bloodless perhaps, maybe he should thank the Great Spirit it was not worse, but it did not go _unfelt_ in the recess of his heart, which was not made of stone. 

Perhaps White Star had been right to say what he had, that night in the lodge. Howling Wolf knew he had not been meant to hear the story of his birth and it was his punishment for listening where he was not wanted. 

It did not make it easier to bear, knowing that White Star had wished him dead for the blood running in his veins. 

Killing him as a child that night at the river might have been a kindness. Older, wiser, for having seen thirteen winters he understood better. He was a boy, someday to be a man, with no place to belong in the world. He barely felt he belonged _here_ but for the love of his mother and Little Fox who were dear to his heart. He had no clear path to find his way and so many secret fears that he spent many nights sleepless, staring into the dark. 

What if they were right? That was what worried him the most. And yet, on the other hand, what if they were not? Did it even matter who was right and who was wrong when he was not so different than any other boy? He had neither fangs nor claws to set him apart. There were times he wished such an obvious marker existed; something he too could point to and know. This was why and then the world might make sense. 

In the end, Howling Wolf was but one boy, he did not imagine it could matter so much. He thought of this to satisfy the private concerns he bore about his bloodline. Things he dared not give voice to for fear of granting them yet more power over him. His mother had borne enough troubles on account of him, the cursed nature of his father; he would keep this for himself. It troubled him more than he cared to admit that he knew what he was in so far as he knew what he was not.

He was not yee naagloshii, in his heart, he knew this for an absolute no matter what others whispered and the wind saw fit to bring to his ears. But according to the village children, he was not Cheyenne, too strange, and too different inside. He bled the same as them. He knows this because he cut himself once just to see if they bled alike. They did but it was _still_ not enough to bridge the space that stretched out between him and them. He knew what he was _not_ , but if not these things, then what, or who was he allowed to be? 

_I am a half-blood,_ the boy supposed with a sigh of resignation knowing himself to be neither human enough for many among his tribe nor beastly enough to desire a claim to his darker heritage.

Some nights his heart ached terribly for what he knew he could never have and he wished, oh how he wished, he was all the things they claimed he was. A _monster_ , surely, would not hurt so over the idle chatter of youthful words. A _monster_ would not feel as deeply cut as he felt it; that same old bloodless wound that stung and ached but did not bleed red. Instead, pouring black doubts into his mind. 

_Monster is what_ they called him when they hurled their sticks and their cruel words. They stole the happiness from his early years with their callousness and neither his mother's soft voice raised in a melody or Little Fox’s kind smiling eyes had been able to return what had been taken. The boy He Who Limps pilfered the wooden coyote made for him by his mother and She Who Smiles took the beautiful hawk feather he found along the edge of the path lying in a patch of yellow _splitleafs_.

It was their desire to leave him with nothing, and so that was what they had done.

Young High Wolf with the soft eyes in trying to earn a place among the other children had joined in on their cruel games. High Wolf had tried to take the glass bead given to him by his mother and he had decided he had had enough.

He bloodied High Wolf’s nose, sending him running home to his lodge in fear, and they left him well enough alone now. 

All this they did to provoke him and still, they had the nerve to call him the bad one? What had he ever done to them? What _could_ he do to them? Nothing! Even if he wished he could not do them real harm. He was too human to do anything besides know when the weather was going to turn sour or where a snake lay in wait before seeing it with his own eyes.

Useless, that’s what he was. He was neither wolf nor dog and treated worse than either.

His fangs were not sharp enough to keep them at bay.

Deep inside he knew he did not want to, either. If they came to fear him they would _never_ accept him as their own.

Howling Wolf stirred, deciding enough time had passed and his thoughts were becoming too dark. He would go and help if he was allowed. Sparing one last departing look at the blue sky above his head he surged to his feet. 

A large rock, which was big as a wagon wheel caught his eyes and pulled at his thoughts with relentless force; it was all but _humming_ , begging for his attention. He felt the vibration as some force set it to move. He frowned, kneeling down to inspect the strange marking abrading its surface. It was strangely warm to the touch and the air now smelled like the plains after a thunderstorm. He hunkered down to closely examine the rock, which had carvings on its surface, and when he looked up there was a pale-faced boy with blue eyes staring at him.

He almost jumped out of his _own_ skin at the sudden appearance.

_His skin is so light!_ Howling Wolf thought.

_Perhaps he is a spirit and not a boy at all?_

He reached out and poked the strange boy, feeling skin and warmth that told him that the boy was both alive and very much part of the living world they inhabited.

The boy did not wear clothes like the settlers' children but he did not know much about their ways and thought nothing more of it. 

Howling Wolf stared at the boy and the boy stared back.

Slowly Howling Wolf began to circle around him, ensuring that his eyes had not been deceived as his ears had been. 

Finding nothing amiss he stopped in front of the boy once more. He had not heard the boy approach and this alarmed him greatly. Nothing snuck past him. Ever. Not the stealthy gray wolves or the slinking coyotes, their eyes gleaming and mouths salivating for scraps. They would take unattended babies, too. Or anything they came across to sate the hunger in their bellies. But for him, Hawk Woman would have no fifth daughter. 

“Who are you?” he asked the blue-eyed boy, remembering the bits and pieces of the new language his mother was teaching to him. “How did you come to be here?”

“Um...where is it here?” the boy asked, scratching his ear as he looked around. “I take it I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

“Kansas? What are you talking about -- how did you come to this rock and river?” he demanded.

“I -- I don’t know?” the other boy replied, but he kept looking at him strangely.

Maybe he had never seen a Cheyenne boy before? 

_Yes, that was it,_ Howling Wolf decided. This boy must be very new to the plains, too. He looked about him as if he had never seen the _land_ he was standing on before.

Clearly, he had become lost and even when Howling Wolf pressed close until they were nose to nose. The other boy remained still and unmoving but he did not look scared.

Confused, yes. But not scared.

_He is not afraid of me!_ Howling Wolf thought his heart leaping excitedly.

_This is an unexpected chance,_ he decided.

Determined not to let an opportunity pass Howling Wolf stepped forward and extended his hand in friendship. The man who tried nothing gained nothing and that was not who he would be, he had made up his mind. 

This boy did not leap away and run even when he raised his voice the smallest bit, he did not have the look of fear in his sky blue eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps they could be friends. 

The blue-eyed boy followed his lead and the two boys firmly shook hands. They held themselves proud and tall as could be like the men they strived to become. 

“I am Howling Wolf,” he said, boldly introducing himself. Watching the other boy as he shuffled his feet and stuck his hands into pockets at his waist. 

“Oh, uh, I’m Wally.”

Howling Wolf listened carefully trying to understand the blue-eyed boy's language. Mother had said it was important to know the language of the white settlers to do trade with them. Not all in the tribe believed that the children should learn the white man’s ways or the white man’s tongue. 

Howling Wolf knew this too and decided all the more reason to learn. 

Someday he might need to know these things. He knew a time might come where he was no longer welcome. For this reason, he was able to speak a little with the strangely garbed white boy he found in the woods. But he did not know much. This was how he knew something strange was happening. 

He spoke little of the settlers’ language and the boy knew nothing of Cheyenne and still when each spoke in their native tongue they were _understood_. 

It was all very strange to him but not unwelcome. Howling Wolf did not question the how of it, choosing instead to embrace the chance to speak as he might with any other boy his own age. 

Here, at last, was someone who did not know what he was. A white, blue-eyed boy who saw only what the rivers and creeks reflected back to Howling Wolf, a boy who wanted a friend.

************

To this point, he had a lonely childhood, shunned by the children of his village, and pelted with rocks whenever he crept to close. He had often retreated to the woods, alone, learning to hunt and track small game on his own to pass the time. But on the day he found an oddly shaped rock in a small clearing he found a friend, too. The blue-eyed Spirit boy who appeared to him like an unsought vision. It was strange because the rock felt warm even on cold days, and the air often smelled like the plains after a thunderstorm. Whenever he knelt, placing his hand to the surface of the rock the Spirit boy was always staring back. 

The blue-eyed boy no longer looked so lost when this happened. The shaking of hands from before had been a silent pact to know one another's ways. And that was what they did, day after day when they could creep away from their houses and tipis to exchange stories in the woods. 

The spirits had seen fit to intervene; that was Howling Wolf’s only explanation for the unknowable force that was helping to bring them to find one another time after time. Neither boy understood the force that allowed them to see one another; they did not question it grinning and laughing like boys as they remained close to the rock, exchanging names, and pleasantries.

Howling Wolf had never had a friend before. 

The other children would find his companion strange but he no longer placed much value in their thoughts and words. They called _him_ strange; when they were not calling him Cursed One or worse things that mother did not want him repeating. He did not -- it made her sad to hear such words. 

What did it matter to him that this newcomer had pale skin and blue eyes and not dark skin or dark eyes? 

The Spirit boy had a way about him that Howling Wolf liked. And he did not pelt him with rocks or pull his hair to see what happened if he became angry. He had a broad open smile and a gentle, trusting manner that made Howling Wolf concerned for his well-being. 

The other boy was quick to assure Howling Wolf that things were not as dangerous where he lived. 

There was _always_ food to eat, water to drink, and _no one_ threw stones at him.

This pleased Howling Wolf who would not wish such bad experiences on his new friend. It sounded like his family had found a good place and he wished that someday he might see it, too. He lived in a place called Absaroka with a population count of 25,876. Howling Wolf had asked how he knew there were so many people. 

‘The sign leading into town says how many people live here,’ his new friend explained, shrugging his shoulders as if to say he didn’t quite get it either. 

He did not speak much, this quiet boy, but Howling Wolf discovered that his words were worth waiting for when he did. 

In this place between worlds, they learned many things from each other. Wally, which was Spirit boys’ _true name_ given to him at birth, taught him the settler’s white-man speech, and little by little he taught his new friend Cheyenne. The first time they had broken camp the tipis being brought down into bundles to be carried on the women’s back he had been afraid that without the rock he would never see Wally again. He had become short of breath and his chest constricted. It had taken many minutes to calm his breathing.

He discovered he did not have to worry. No matter how far they traveled there would always be a rock emitting strange heat some distance from the new camp. All he had to do was reach out and touch it; Wally was always there, waiting. So their friendship continued as they got to know one another in their secret meeting place between two worlds.

He told _Blue Eyes_ , the Cheyenne name he gave Wally, all the secret things, all the old myths of his village, and in return, Blue Eyes recounted equally strange stories: a giant felled by a pebble and a man who cut off his hair and lost all his strength. 

Life carried on in this way for many months but it could not last forever. Howling Wolf felt the distance between himself and his people become even greater and greater with each passing day. It became a taxing weight that muted his joy at having someone he could speak with who did not know to fear him. 

He wished he could pull the pale boy into his world but he never did. He did not even try. His world was not the same as Wally’s. It was harder and it was darker, there was not always food and water and raiding parties from the Crow and Sioux could end with many dead Cheyenne. Howling Wolf knew in his heart that Wally was better off in his own world. There he was safe. Wally would never be safe with Howling Wolf.

************

Howling Wolf was growing up, becoming a man, he could not keep running away to his rock in the woods without gathering more unwanted attention. He was barely tolerated as it was. If he allowed himself to slip further from the heart of his tribe he would end up eating with the coyotes and feral dogs. It embittered his heart to know Hawk Woman probably liked _them_ better than he. But still, they were his tribe. He had to try.

For his mother, he had to try.

“This is the last time we will speak Wally,” Howling Wolf admitted the next time they met beside the rock. He had grown taller since the first time he and the blue-eyed boy had begun speaking. But he was not the only one to have grown. 

Howling Wolf could see hints of the man he would become in the width of his shoulders when he stood straight and the signs of new strength in his arms and wished that his world was not so dangerous so he might have shared it with his friend; if only for a short time.

Deep sadness, like the first winter frost, crept into his heart not that the moment for goodbyes was upon them. It was the right choice, he knew that, but that did not make it easy or the sorrow of his heart into some lesser thing. It pulsed, cold and wretched, knowing the loneliness that stretched out in the coming days.

“If I am to be a man I cannot have friends that other people cannot see, they say it is in my head only. I am strange enough already,” he explained carefully to keep the bitterness from his face. There was no need for Wally to see him so miserable. He would rather be remembered with a smile than a frown.

“It’s Walter now, actually,” Blue Eyes corrected, he looked wistful but there was understanding in his eyes, too. 

Gratefulness warmed Howling Wolf’s heart, a soft glow that suffused him from within. It lessened the burden he carried knowing Blue Eyes -- now _Walter_ \-- understood his reasoning. That he did not do this out of meanness or a wish to hurt his dearest friend. 

“I’ve been told the same thing, Wolf.” Walter shuffled his feet a bit, shooting him a sad smile. His blue eyes were bright and shiny with unshed tears and Howling Wolf understood very well.

He nodded, already knowing he would miss being called _‘Wolf’_ as he had no one else to call him such things. He had only ever had one friend and there is a part of him that believes that this might always be so.

He watched as Walter took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping beneath their own invisible weight. 

“I have to grow up, too. But, I don’t want to never see you again.”

“We will not be parted in spirit, Walter, we are _friends_ , we are _brothers_ ,” Howling Wolf promised, “seen or not seen, that cannot be changed.”

“Really?” Walter asked, his voice shot through with hope. With a blind belief in what Howling Wolf said to him. 

“That’s not so bad, then,” Walter sighed, kicking a rock. 

Unwilling to leave his friend with such a sad look on his face and this heaviness he saw weighing his heart, Howling Wolf pulled the other boy close. He spoke the prayer of his people to Walter hoping it might grant him strength in the future. Words to grant him wisdom, and strength, and happiness. 

It was all he had to offer and the unshakable belief that Wally would live a good and full life. Howling Wolf consoled himself that his friend would be better off without the shadow of whatever he might someday become at his heel. 

Walter listened, solemn and serious beyond his years, nodding along as he mouthed the words beneath his breath. Howling Wolf hoped he might never forget them, that _he_ too might never be forgotten. He would remember Wally each time he looked at the summer skies, clear and blue, and endlessly bright. 

Satisfied that he had done all he could Howling Wolf pulled back once more. He nodded with his mind firmly made up. 

_“Haaahe,"_ he said, holding out his hand in friendship.

Walt reached back firmly. _“Haaahe,”_ he parroted with stern gravity and when they let go each boy, determined to become a man, turned and walked away from the rock with a determined stride. Though they tried valiantly to resist, both looked back and were saddened to find the rock and their friend had each vanished into thin air. 

Blue Eyes had returned fully to the world from which he had come and now Howling Wolf knew he must do the same; he could not spend his whole life dragged between two worlds. A mist of tears welled in his eyes but did not fall. 

He tipped his head back and stared into the evening sky, which had become a deep blue splashed with red from the setting sun. From now on when he looked into the world above his head all he would remember was his friend, _Wally_. 

They would not meet again in this lifetime and the knowledge broke his heart clean in two. He had never known a boy like Wally and he did not believe he ever would. 

His melancholy became a visible thing he realized when even White Star took pity on his unhappiness. This angered him. He did not want pity.

He had wanted a friend. But that time was over. He could have respect instead. He could become a man and seek a vision for himself. He was the _son of Swift Coyote_ and he wished to make his mother proud by returning from a vision quest with strong medicine. Perhaps a name that fit him better for the man he might become. 

He was Howling Wolf no longer. That boy wanted only a friend and he had found the truest of them all. Though they would never speak again he had Wally; a memory to hold in his heart and mind of someone who had wanted to know him for _who_ he was and not _what_ he was. 

Though separated by space and time itself when looking up at the night sky they would be seeing the same stars; it was a balm to his spirit knowing this. It was enough and far more than Howling Wolf had believed possible for one such as him; unwanted for being neither wolf nor dog. Maybe that did not have to be such a bad thing.

It was time to see if there was a reason the spirits had seen fit to guard him against a watery death as a babe that long-ago night by the river.

It was time to see if they, at last, might speak _to_ him. 

Too human for some, too monstrous for others, was there a place, a time, where he could belong with a purpose of his own making?

He wanted answers to his questions as much as he feared what they might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: I suspect this is terrible but I want to move the story along. I see revisions in my future. The plan is to get "Howling Wolf" his new name in the next chapter. _Anyone want to stake a stab at what that name might be, hmm?_
> 
> Reviews feed the writers soul. 🖤 🤍


	4. Neither Wolf Nor Dog (Greater Than Both)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 1713, and all of Howling Wolf's naïve hopes of acceptance are dashed against the wall of White Star and his prejudices. 
> 
> Hawk Woman begins to see the wrong that had been done to Swift Coyote's young son. She spied on White Star's face the fear within her own heart and it is not of the boy knelt in the dirt. It is of what might be.

_**Absaroka, Wyoming: 1713** _

“Neither wolf nor dog? Ha, _less_ than both” White Star hissed as they spoke on the outskirts of the camp. 

Howling Wolf absorbed the words in silence, eyes fixed on his feet. They were neither new nor worse than anything else that had been hurled in his direction; he felt relief that they were far off enough that the wind would not carry them off to the ears of others milling about. 

It only became worse the older he got. The unbearable friction between him and White Star never completely faded. It was always there like a splinter lodged below the skin. The warrior did not care that he was fourteen winters and still showed no sign of his father's bloodline. All White Star cared about was what he was _not_. And what he was, well, that never seemed to measure up either.

As he took his rebuke in silence Howling Wolf remembered a time when he had been far more helpless at this man's hands. He had just turned eleven; the plains were turning green and flush with life as the long winter came to an end. Mother kissed him on the cheek and let him go away with White Star. 

He had been excited, he recalled. Anxious an eager to please his mother's husband, to belong, but that was not meant to be. 

The man did not speak to him at all; he had not thought anything of this at the time for it was not White Star’s custom to address him needlessly. His eyes wide with excitement had taken in the view as they traveled further and further from camp and his mother and Little Fox until it was only them, the endless rolling plains, and the errant prairie wolf. 

He was to discover it had all been a cleverly disguised pretense -- what a smartly cloaked ruse it had been, too. Playing on the hopes of his mother and the naïve boy he had been. 

_‘It is a chance to know one another and learn’_ White Star had said to Swift Coyote as he took him away. Only when they were completely alone, so far that not even the whisper of a rifle’s shot would have echoed back to the camp, did he come to know what White Star’s true purpose had been. The man beat him so badly he almost died.

_‘Reveal yourself,’_ White Star commanded with each blow. He called him many despicable things and among that vitriol, Howling Wolf learned the truth of his birth. 

He was small and lean, completely without defenses. At the time he did all he could; he curled into a ball on the ground, knees to his chest and arms covering his face. 

All hopes of acceptance were dashed and he cried, soundless and silent; the salt of his tears mixed into the dirt that streaked his face. 

Blows rained down on him, deep and bruising, it was only when White Star was certain he was not hiding some unnatural powers from the tribe that he stopped. Only when he knew Howling Wolf was not unclean, like his skinwalker father. 

When he claimed his feet many hours later bruised, bleeding, and heart-sore, he left behind his innocence in the ruins of his once-happy childhood. 

Upon their return, White Star said a small Crow raiding party had set them upon. They barely escaped with their lives. Howling Wolf was not stupid enough to contradict his lies. 

There had been an uneasy truce since that day. 

Howling Wolf gave the other man a wide berth and the man left him alone. The truce became more tenuous with each passing winter. He knew White Star and Hawk Woman feared that when he became a man his father’s bloodline would reveal itself for all to see. 

He had seen fourteen winters and it had not happened; he prayed it never did. A small, _dangerous_ , part of him thought what a day it would be if it were true. They were bad thoughts to entertain so he banished them from his thoughts.

As he stood in silence before the angry warrior he missed his friend with a bitterness that began to harden his heart. His mother had seen this change in him -- but she did not know what White Star did. And so, she did not, _could not_ , understand. 

He was not made of stone, but he grew tired of being so easily cut. When he had said his farewells to his friend at the strange, magic rock he had hoped to bring about some further change in his life. He had wanted to go on a vision quest. He had wanted answers but had been denied even the chance to try.

Mother would not hear of it and now he knew why. She did not wish to see him hurt by the suspicions and prejudices of the others in their tribe. Vision quests were not trifling things and they were not something they wanted him to be part of.

He was half. 

Only half, and never ever _enough_.

A pressure built up in his chest and he was forced to scrounge for the smooth pebble he kept in a special pouch. He rolled it over and over and over in his hands drowning out the monotonous drone of White Star and all his angry, familiar, words. 

“Listen when I speak to you,” White Star demanded, and with one heavy swing he had slapped the pebble from Howling Wolf’s hands.

_No, no, no,_ half frantic he knelt down his hands clawing at the dirt until he had it back, and closed it up in a tightly clenched fist. _I need this. I need this._ It was his mantra and he kept it close even as his face reddened in humiliation at the warriors’ feet.

White Star kicked him absently as he knelt, catching his breath, and though Howling Wolf’s eyes burned hot and fierce with shattered pride he did not spend a single tear. 

“That is enough!” Hawk Woman snapped. “Control your temper, White Star. He is just a boy -- unless you would have me think that is how you would treat a son of your flesh and blood?”

“He is not my blood, he is not our blood he is --”

“Calm your temper and still your hot tongue. I know what he is. He knows what he is, too. We never let him forget it, I think that might have been wrong of us,” Hawk Woman sighed.

The elder nodded towards her youngest daughter who was wrapped around her ankles. “I would have no fifth daughter but for him.” 

White Star relented, whether from Hawk Woman’s words or the approach of Swift Coyote Howling Wolf did not know. It mattered little in the end. 

Howling Wolf did not even look up, he dared not for fear of the disgust in Hawk Woman’s eyes would fling him over the edge he clung to with fragile threads of shredded dignity. 

“Howling Wolf?” his mother called, concern was loud and clear in her voice. She did not have to ask _‘what is the matter?’_ for he already knew by the expression on her face that she had seen some of what happened.

“Mother,” Howling Wolf said, forcing a smile onto his face that did not touch his eyes and he took to his feet. “I fell, that is all,” he said and walked to greet her. 

She knew he was lying. She was a clever woman, after all, but she did not call him on it or ask what had happened and he did not say. There was little point wasting words on something that had already happened and could not be changed. He did not fit here. He already knew this; perhaps drowning would have been a kindness to the babe he had been but he did not regret his life. 

There were still things worth discovering he was sure of that. Wally and the strange rock by the river must only be the beginning of what existed in the world and he wanted to see it all.

He felt the eyes of White Star and Hawk Woman on his back but he did not turn to look.

If he had done so he would have begun to see a thawing in the eyes of the older woman who found she took much delight in her youngest daughter, Still Water, who was much like herself in the days of her youth.

White Star was as unbending as a Great Oak tree. He would never bend his proud back or extend his hand to the son of a _yee naagloshii_ , no matter the good nature of his mother.

Howling Wolf did not need the spirits to tell him this, he knew it well by the scars on his heart and the purpling bruises fresh on his ribs. 

“What thoughts trouble you my son?” his mother asked as he sat beside her, watching as she wove baskets to trade and to use. “That look of yours is enough to break a mother's heart.”

Howling Wolf shrugged, placing his smooth pebble back in its pouch, turning to his mother. “Then I will have to find a new one,” he said with false cheer.

He saw something flash across her face, it was worn and tired and very familiar. It happened when their eyes connected for the first time since White Star’s explosion. It was just the ghost of an expression but it made his heart twinge. His mother was the strongest person he knew and he hated that he could not hide his troubles from her all-seeing eyes.

“All is well, mother,” he said, even if they both knew it was not. 

“White Star --”

Howling Wolf frowned, his face becoming pinched and strained far beyond the years of a fourteen-year-old boy, and Swift Coyote pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“It is what it is,” Howling Wolf said, and that was the last words he spoke for a long, long time. Little Fox, her hair neatly braided down her back, joined them later and they sat together each person weaving and mending and thinking their own thoughts. 

It was a good silence shared with the only two people he had ever loved; the third he kept tucked away in the recess of his heart. A part of him would always be drawn to the blue-eyed boy who had been his first friend. But he knew it would be selfish to wish he were part of this world, which was so dark and ugly. 

Wally would be shunned for liking him, for befriending him as he had done and in time he would do what High Wolf had done and turned on him to appease the other boys. It was better that Wally stayed only a memory; such things could not be altered or changed, for they merely existed in a place separate from the happenings of the world.

Howling Wolf looked down at the wood he had been carving and realized what shape it had taken. He smiled a little turning it over in his hands, feeling the grooves and lines he had cut with only half his mind on the

task. 

“My, my, that is a fine bear, my son,” mother said, examining it for herself before passing it into Little Fox’s waiting hands. “Swift Coyote speaks the truth and not with a mother's boast!” Little Fox laughed, chucking his chin as she had when he was much smaller. “It is good work, little wolf.”

A shadow loomed across their corner of the world and Howling Wolf almost jumped when Hawk Woman spoke to him. 

“Little Fox is correct -- it is a fine bear you have carved and with that small, dull knife, too!” the elder said, and when he chanced to look at her face, he saw that she meant it. Her eyes were neither hard nor cold tonight and he did not know what to do with that so he did the wise thing and remained silent.

Hawk Woman sighed, sounding as tired as the tallest tree and older then the oldest mountain. 

“ _Howling Wolf_ , you are called -- and yet you do not speak so much if you speak at all. I suspect I can shoulder some of that blame,” the elder said, filling the silence with words that made his chest burn with too many emotions. 

“Can you find it in your heart to forgive an old woman her fears?” Hawk Woman asked, her long calloused finger under his chin turned his face toward her and the light of the fire. He squinted his eyes, looking at her from lowered lashes in the hope that they would not glimmer in the dark.

It made him look bashful -- shy, even -- he knew. But it was better than alarming the old woman with his strangeness as they balanced on the precipice of this change.

Little Fox and Swift Coyote both took small-indrawn breaths. The sound of their shock at the elders' words was loud in his ears. They were unexpected words coming from the clan matriarch who had only looked at him with scorn. 

“Of course, Hawk Woman,” he said, quick and without thought. It was the only acceptable thing to say, to his mind. 

Perhaps the elder suspected some of this for she laughed, and it did not sound particularly happy. 

Howling Wolf said nothing more without prompting, breathing out a quiet sign when she released his chin. He did not mean to be disrespectful but the light had a habit of finding its way into his eyes in the night hours, and often had mother and Little Fox commented on their unusual shine. 

Thisslight opening of the door from the old woman was quite unexpected and he did not wish to see it slam shut on his face before he’d had a chance to properly examine what it could mean. It took a further moment to recognize the feeling thudding against his chest, glowing warm and soft in a place that had become hard as canyon rocks.

_Hope, it is hope._ Howling Wolf swallowed around a throat gone dry, though it felt it took him half an age he spoke. “I understand, all is well with us,” he said.

Little Fox stood and Hawk Woman took her seat, sitting far closer to him than she ever had. Their skin was almost touching and she did not lurch away in anger. Howling Wolf remained facing forward, unmoving and barely breathing for fear of disrupting the moment. 

“Hmm, then you are wiser than I, son of Swift Coyote.”

Breathing was becoming hard and with Hawk Woman sitting so close he was too ashamed to search for his pebble. He focused his thoughts, thinking of endless blue skies until the need to flee subsided and his chest ached less. It did not even take long, this time, and he counted it as a blessing.

Hawk Woman reached out, patting his knee in a motherly way that caught him so off guard that all three women broke out into gentle snorts of laughter. He flushed hotly, he was not amused but held his tongue knowing the expression on his face must be that of the startled deer caught by the hunters’ arrow. 

“Yes, I can see I have been rather...perilous in my dealings with you have I not? Well, time to let the past die. Now, I suggest you make more such objects -- the settlers sometimes purchase oddities for their children,” Hawk Woman motioned for her eldest daughter to come forward, a tall imperious girl with a high brow and a cutting manner. 

The eldest daughter returned and in her hands, she brought with her a small knife and sheath that she passed to Hawk Woman. 

“For you, young man,” Hawk Woman said, presenting the knife to him.

“Thank you,” he said, gratitude was suffusing his voice. “I will do as you have asked.”

Hawk Woman nodded and stood, her bones clicking and creaking like a brittle tree. 

“I heard some of the exchange with White Star -- now, now, do not look like that!” she exclaimed, shaking her head with mild irritation. “I only mean you are right, you are becoming a man, and perhaps it is time to see what the spirits will have to say to you. It is not for me or anyone else to stand in the way of that.”

Hawk Woman's eldest daughter gawped at them like a fish laid out on the rocks; her mouth dropped open so wide flies might have flow in if left so for long. 

Hawk Woman ignored her, nodding to herself some more. “Yes, in three weeks we will see what the spirits have to say.”

Howling Wolf’s eyes widened, his entire being and state of mind suffused with unexpected delight. It thrummed and pulsed through him until he could not contain it and a smile broke out across his face that set his eyes to shine with rare happiness. 

He looked at his mother and Little Fox and saw that there was tears in the two women’s eyes, which glimmered unshed in the pale starlight. It was a happy occasion and no time for tears. He was going to have his vision quest in three weeks!

Hawk Woman sniffed, “ _Howling Wolf_ , pah,” she muttered under her breath, more than once, shaking her head in amusement as she walked with her eldest daughter at her elbow. She, too, had begun to see that the name did not fit the son of Swift Coyote.

_**3 Weeks Later:** _

He remained alone on the hill naked as the day he had been born, waiting for the will of the spirits to make themselves known. He listened for them in each murmur of the wind, the prairie wolf's loud high-pitched howl, and the eagles’ mighty screech as it soared through the air. He knew not how much time had passed only that it was more than six hours and less than seven days when he began to receive images. Visions flashed through his mind's eyes like the flutter of an eagle’s wing, fast, so fast he could only hold on to a little. 

A large bear, strong and proud, stood in the middle of a rushing river full of salmon. _‘The river was time.’_ A Voice whispered the knowledge into his ear, into the very _core_ of his being. It spoke with a hundred echoes; it seared across his senses with a force of will that walked the border of pain. And yet -- there was no pain. It did not physically harm him even as the Voice spoke loud enough to make his knees tremble. 

It was loud and it was quiet, it was hot and it was cold, it was everything and everywhere, and it was _nothing_ but the whisper of a butterfly's wings. That was the Voice. He did not know how he came upon this understanding, only that it was so.

There was an unexpected intimacy to this sharing of truths and he opened himself to it willingly, laying his heart and spirit bare to the Voices' wills. His hunger for knowledge -- for understanding -- had set his feet upon this path and he would not depart it.

‘What would be, would be,’ said his mother time and again and she was right, there were forces at work that were beyond his ability to reshape. It was the habit of man to look around himself and see what he could make better, stronger, and wiser but the spirits were ranked above man's ability to alter; they could not be moved as the mountain would not move for the wise-man. 

It was the wise-man who learned how to move around the mountain rather than break himself against the rocks. 

Howling Wolf presented himself to the spirits, a willing vessel to pour full of ancient knowledge. He drank what they offered like a man parched from the desert sun and asked for more.

_‘You are the bear, young one,’_ he was told, _‘able to hunt and fish at both sides of the creek,’_ if he so desired. _‘You have been tested with hardship and still, you do not run -- no, even when you fear, you stand tall and proud as a warrior must stand in the face of great danger,’_ the Voice said and it was not trying to flatter, for it did not lie, this was the truth according to them that spoke with him atop the cliffs. _‘You have learned the wisdom of silence and a clever tongue and can be Howling Wolf no more.’_

He accepted this, his nerves leaping as if trying to escape his body, as the air became charged and the scent of thunder and lightning strong in his nose. He trusted in the Voice and did not leave his spot, allowing the information to pass through him. 

_‘All water returns to the sea,’_ this they said, too, though who _they_ were he did not know. Nor was he impertinent enough to demand further answers. He did not understand this but no deeper answer was forthcoming. 

_‘Time, you have much time to learn what this will come to mean to you, and they which your heart loves best,’_ the Voice said and he felt the wisdom of the trees, the mountains, and the ancient land he stood upon seep into his bones and blood and body as he lay within the sacred circle. Immersed in the knowledge of the Voices, he saw a glimmer of what it might mean, a face in the distance, a splash of blue bright as clear summer skies; his hand reached out to touch the phantom being which danced beyond reach but it dissolved into smoke and ash. 

He groaned in frustration, to have come so close to knowing and been denied. _‘Tsk, tsk, it is too soon,’_ the Voices chided, amused in the way of a mother who clucked at the child who stuck his hands too close to the fire. 

_‘Beware the black wolf who steers you to trouble. He is cunning like the snake among the prairie grass -- he seeks to take you unawares, to wrest control from your hands. Be strong, be brave and this will not come to pass,’_ they warned, and he saw the darkness that stirred within himself given substance and form. _‘But do not be meek or unwilling to stand upon your feet -- be wise and kind as the white wolf is wise and is kind.’_

They paused and he felt a soft caress, a motherly touch upon his cheek, and he was filled with soft glowing warmth that came from within. _‘Your path is hard, for it is neither dark nor light, you walk the lonely twilight roads of the in-between.’_

He felt himself wilt at those words, an echo of his own thoughts surfaced, _‘neither wolf nor dog,’_ and White Star’s belief that he was worth less than either. Was there no place, no time, in which he could find belonging? He began to descend into despair. 

“Only half, and never enough,” he muttered thinking of White star, tears pricking at his eyes. 

The Voice inside his head laughed, clear and loud as the tolling of a bell. _‘Forget the angry warrior and his hot words for your road eclipses his own by many leagues -- his time has passed into winter,_ _and yours is beginning to bloom like the first blush of spring.’_

The many hidden wounds of his heart were soothed by the Voices' words and he let himself believe; perhaps White Star _had_ been wrong, perhaps _he_ had been wrong, too. 

_‘Fear not your heart or its darkness for we have seen its contents,’_ the Voice went on, gentle and lulling as the humming of his mother's lullaby. A distant, vague sound his heart never forgot. 

_‘_ _Humans see a bear standing at the edge of a forest and fear blooms in their chest, their blood burns hot and they cannot think with reason beyond escape or attack -- they do not understand. The bear is only protecting those it cares for -- sometimes it is a warning, to see such a creature -- sometimes it merely stands and is still as the world goes on...those seeking to trespass and see this bear will know to choose another route, do you see now?’_ the Voice explained. _‘You are the standing bear, you guarded Still Water as you would your mother or Little Fox and even_ _the man you hate, White Star.’_

“A standing bear never runs,” he breathed. His words sounded so small and hollow next to the deep resonance of the Voices. But it held within its contents the ring of truth. 

_‘That, little cub, is your curse and that is your gift. You love, despite the hate. You stand, no matter how your bones ache to fall. You breathe, even when all that you once knew returns to dust.’_

There were many things he did not understand but only three things he felt he needed to know above all else. He took a breath and asked his questions, the ones he had wished an answer for since he learned the truth of his rare, impossible, bloodline. 

“Why? What is my purpose here? Why was I spared that night by the river?” he called out, desperate to know. This might be his only chance. 

_‘To live, Standing Bear, to live,’_ the Voices said and then they were gone and the silence they left behind was deafening. Alone in his head, alone in his body once more he looked around himself and knew he was the boy Howling Wolf no more. 

He was a young man now. He was a _Standing Bear._ He was like the bear standing in the river from his vision; he walked the _in-between_ spaces, the midways, and the crossroads that divided the world. 

White Star had been half right and half wrong. 

_Not a wolf, not a dog -- something different to either._ He nodded to himself. _A protector_ , he decided. That was what he would be. He would be his _tribe's_ Standing Bear. He could safeguard those he loved. What better purpose could there be to a life?

Howling Wolf was the name bestowed on him at birth then there was the secret name known only to himself and the Medicine Man Lame Bull, which they would go with them to the grave unspoken, and now he had found his third _\-- and perhaps last --_ name. Standing Bear, given to him by the Voices that came to him on his vision quest as he waited alone and unarmed among the crags and rocks of the canyon. He had sought them out and they had answered his call and much more besides. He could not have asked for more than this. There was no greater gift than what the Voices had imparted. Finally, he had a true name, strong medicine of his own that had nothing to do with his father, and with Hawk Woman’s blessing a secure place among his people.

A greater gift he couldn't have asked for than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auhtors Note: And so I spin the tangled web of destiny. Here we have a more blatant example of Henry's belief in the expression "it is what it is," hammered into his heart by the almost futile efforts of finding acceptance as someone who is half human, and half "not." 
> 
> I know it's a big ask -- but does anyone recall who kicked of SOTS? Mathias and May Still Water being told a story at their Grandmothers knee. Here is a "STILL WATER", daughter of Hawk Woman, who will supposedly live on to tell the tale to her descendants. 
> 
> Howling Wolf/Henry tries to make sense of a face he sees but the Voices snatch it away before he sees to much of his own future. Anyone notice, "they whom your heart loves best?" amid all the cryptic life-lesson talk? Nope. Okay. Moving On. 😋
> 
> And finally, Howling Wolf becomes STANDING BEAR. 
> 
> This is my crude attempt to weave the future into the past.


	5. To be Better, For Want of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 1715, with a new name came an acceptance Standing Bear has long dreamed of, but never believed would come to pass. 
> 
> Hawk Woman takes the young brave under her wing, a public act seen by many eyes. This enacts a Great Change for the boy who had been shunned and his mother Swift Coyote.
> 
> He has friends and walks in harmony with his tribe. 
> 
> The seasons pass and Standing Bear realizes that the duality of his nature is not reserved to his dreaded skinwalker bloodline but encompasses the matters of the heart, too.
> 
> ALTERNATIVE title: _"A Tale of Two Kisses."_

_**Wyoming: 1715** _

Standing Bear had been cast into two diverging dyes that would not be reconciled. Would he forever be divided, not _enough_ as he was for anyone to accept, this was his deepest fear since childhood. _He_ refused the dark ones and still had found himself shunned by the only people he had ever known in return. So he had lived, his secret fear made a reality, for fourteen bleak years, broken with moments of contentment in the seconds before sleep claimed him, when he was allowed to forget what he was. And of course, the happy times spent by the river with the blue-eyed Spirit Boy, who had been like a balm to his young heart. He had been an Indian without a tribe. None besides Little Fox and Swift Coyote, his mother, were willing to claim _him_ as their own. Then, one day Hawk Woman’s heart softened to his plight, moved by White Star’s extreme actions, and a great change happened. Since that time Hawk Woman had done much to banish those fears. 

When she bestowed him with the small, sharp knife to make his carvings, it had been a gesture to others, more than to him. And it did not pass unseen; many eyes had been watching that night. Still, for him, these things remained an old fear, not easily shaken. It would take time for ivy vines to grow over old wounds, which still burned faintly at unexpected moments. 

It happened by inches, small almost forgettable moments. He would be walking alone beside the creek one second and being joined by the other boys the next. Having to become used to their loudness and constant jostling, when he was accustomed to silence and his shadow for company. Now there were days when he wished for his silent shadow as his only company, so he might hear his own thoughts. Thunder Boy had proven to be many things, but quiet was not counted among his qualities. 

It was not that it happened all at once, only that things were thrown less, words, and rocks both. He noticed and allowed himself to hope the peace might last. Slowly, it worked its way into his heart, as the great winding rivers spider-webbed across the land, it was sparse and hard found in some lands and bountiful in others. 

He began to trust that it would not vanish as he walked in harmony with his tribe. He was no longer shunned, turned away like a malformed dog seeking warmth at the campfires. Finally, he had his heart's desire, acceptance, friends, and better luck than he had ever known before; and it remained for the passing of seven seasons, during which life was good. 

With this new name came acceptance, which he took to carefully navigating. He considered it unwise to plod heavily on freshly crusted ice rivers. At first, he was like the hare that suspiciously eyed the hungry fox for he did not trust it. Or wary that the ice would crack beneath his feet when he least suspected; White Star had made it very hard for him to trust. It was slow to happen. 

But, given time, his suspicions waned like the waxing of the moon, where once it had been large and filled with distrust now it became a sliver the size of a hangnail. It was never forgotten, but it ceased to prey upon his mind in the long, dark hours of the night.

High Wolf and the other boys, Red Bear, Thunder Boy, and Soaring Hawk, no longer excluded him but offered him a place in their games. He accepted, putting on a brave front as he waited to see if they would turn on him as High Wolf had done at the mildest shifting of the wind, when this did not happen he lowered his guard. For the first time, Standing Bear began to trust. 

He checked his words behind his teeth, refraining some speaking when he felt the weather turn or spied the hidden snake others could not see with their own two eyes. So long as he did these things all was well. There were other differences, changes, he noticed within himself but he kept these private, buried deep down where not even his all-knowing might see. It would be simpler, would it not, to be just another of the boys. Simpler by far, if he did not think when his spirit stood before the Creator he had been given both bow and arrow and the basket. Was he to be halved in all ways, inhabited by the spirit of Eagle and Coyote? 

Standing Bear willfully set aside his concerns, they nettled at his mind but he refused to let them grow out of proportion. _It is what it is._ It was his favored refrain these days. 

The whispers behind his back grew less and less until one day he discovered it had ceased. Standing Bear did not realize it had bothered him so terribly until it _stopped_ leaving in its wake contentment he had never known. He began to find his place among his people. 

The end of winter signaled a time of change for the better. There were no hungry bellies that season as they traveled in the long shadow of the _Big Horn Mountain_ tracking the game trails of white-tailed deer, wild turkey, and buffalo heading in a southerly direction. He learned from Yellow Cloud, the best tracker among their small tribe, how to track. The next season it would be he who uncovered the tracks they followed, Yellow Cloud at his shoulder, his eyes alight with unspoken pride.

The Voices called for kindness; Standing Bear did his best to live up to their expectation. It had been one year since that fateful day by the fire when he laid aside his misgiving, allowing the winds of change to shape his life as they wished. 

_‘What would be, would be,’_ as his mother liked to say to calm the mad rush of his fears in those times that he shared his mind with her, in the times before Hawk Woman took him under her wing, telling him stories about his people, and his place among them. She told him the old, half-forgotten history of Two Spirits, and Standing Bear held his breath, afraid all his work and effort would be torn down. She never said, and he did not reveal his private thoughts. He trusted, but not so much as that.

Now, when the boys called him to play, to run, to hunt, and to spy on the girls as they bathed in the creek, he answered their calls. The first young brave to reach out in friendship was Thunder Boy, who was loud and raucous with a ready smile and dark deep-set eyes. He warmed to Thunder Boy and, almost inexplicably, Thunder Boy warmed to _him_ in return. 

Thunder Boy was quick with his toothy smiles and rowdy jokes, whereas he was slow to amusement and serious more often than not. The making of friendships happened much more speedily than he had ever expected for they were nothing alike, he and Thunder Boy. 

Standing Bear fit among them easily, relishing the challenge of strengths as they grappled in the dirt and played at fighting among themselves, now when a winner was declared it was Standing Bear or Thunder Boy. 

He saw the surly looks Red Bear would throw him but it never lasted long and he soon forgot. His strength was growing, as he got older, Thunder Boy was the only one who could match him. He suspected he would eventually surpass his friend, but did not relish the thought as he thought he should. 

He and Thunder Boy were well matched, he discovered. Where Thunder Boy was tall and strong, wide at the shoulders he was fast and had a sinewy leanness that he knew how to use to press his advantage. He was accustomed to being smaller and weaker than his opponents. He resorted to tricks when brute force would not win and did not think it shameful. Better to be clever and quick than a dead-man full of pride.

Red Bear glared when he threw Thunder Boy onto his backside -- it had ended thus more than once. Thunder Boy, however, was breathless with laughter. Thrilled to have met his match among his companions. 

Standing Bear offered his laughing friend a hand up and he accepted, loudly demanding: “Teach me this trick, Standing Bear!”

And so he did. 

He refused Thunder Boy very little if he asked; this was the doing of his dual nature perhaps, but Standing Bear decided he didn't mind. It was a thing known only to the Creator and himself, and for him, it would remain in this way. He missed Spirit Boy less and less as Thunder Boy took over a larger part of his heart. Thunder Boy, for all his fireside boasting, was a good companion. Standing Bear wanted little else besides sitting at his side listening to him tell tall tales, laughing and smiling like one who had never known a single night's hunger. They were nothing alike, that was true, but he found he could relax his guard in his company. 

Of all the people he had come to know, Thunder Boy troubled him the least. 

Thunder Boy did not lack strength, but he lacked the bull-headed conviction that had driven White Star and Hawk Woman to torment him in his younger years. Thunder Boy took _nothing_ seriously; perhaps this was why he had never feared him even when he had shunned him along with the rest. 

Before long he began to see the differences between the boys and the girls when they came together for trading with other tribes. He discovered this about when he realized he enjoyed pleasing himself with his hand, and how thinking of girls and their soft skin and softer smiles stirred his blood in new and exciting ways. 

Thunder Boy had begun to notice, too poking him in the ribs and pointing only with his eyes at the girls he considered the finest among their number.

For himself, he was caught by their gentle curves and knowing smiles but he did not let his newly awakening desires rule his mind. No warrior wanted his daughter to share her tipi with a half-blooded skinwalker. He put all such thoughts from his mind. It was not to be. He shrugged and moved on, there were more important things concerning his thoughts than a pretty girl's smile. Besides, it was not only pretty _girls_ whose smile he had begun to notice. To be honest, this was no revelation to Standing bear who had noticed Thunder Boy in a different light than the others since their first meeting. 

Well, it was worthwhile to note that there was _one_ pretty girl he had not forgotten so easily. 

_Yes, she was a girl unlike any other._ The sharp knife he used for carving stilled as a memory broke the surface of his thoughts. He did not allow his body to rule his head. That much was true. But he was not a saint. Standing Bear grinned, a huff of laughter escaping as he recalled the first time a girl's lips touched his own. 

A Blackfeet tribe with familial ties to Hawk Woman had stopped to trade news with them for a time. Among their number had been many girls, all attractive. He was sure of this much from the way the other boys had acted like fools peacocking around the camps. But there was only one girl that he remembered. 

She had been tall and slender as a willow with hair black as night. That was the image seared into his memory of the girl who stole his first kiss. Standing at the tree line she had beckoned him to follow her, secretive and shy, before disappearing into the dense woods. What could he do but give chase? 

So he did, winding his way after her, hunting the glimpse of her pale doeskin dress as she hid behind towering trees and large rocks. The sun was at its zenith at high noon; rays of mellow sunlight filtered down through the treetops, penetrating through the scattering of leaves and casting an unearthly green-gold radiance over the ground.

“Come find me, Standing Bear!” she had called out; her breathy voice carried on the wind that swept through the woods in slow, lazy gusts. 

“Who are you?” he had asked, he had to work hard to keep up for she was fast and nimble, threading her way through the trees and over the uneven terrain with an uncommon surety.

He had been impressed. 

At first, he did not think she would answer as the silence stretched out but then she did and he heard her though he knew not from which direction she had spoken. Her lilting voice echoed like a directionless murmur that came at him from all sides. 

“Shines Bright,” she had said, “that is what they call me.” 

He followed her giggle, an airy chime that was lovely to his ears, and it was as if he had followed her into a different forest altogether, one that smelled sweetly of earthy, woodsy things, and looked like something meant for more than mere mortal eyes to feast upon. 

Caught up in their games Standing Bear dismissed the errant thought. Laughing, he caught his quarry by the creek, both of them breathing hard from the chase. She was standing in a patch of forest flowers that bespeckled the ground in bells of white and sprigs of lavender. 

Bemusement held him in her thrall and he wondered. Had he caught her fairly or had she conceded to being caught? Before he had a chance to wonder further the girl leaned towards him without prelude, claiming her prize. 

Her small, dainty hand tugging him forward by the shoulder as she kissed him and he did not protest her attentions. They, and she, were most welcome, indeed. It was little more than a chaste press of lips. He had been snared, willingly caught in her trap. He had not known what to do with his hands, too touch, too hold?

He had wanted to, oh yes, he remembered that. But he had kept his hands at his sides, unwilling to mistakenly hold her too tightly. 

Her skin was soft, he recalled, and her breath sweet as the honeycomb he had seen her eating. 

It had been lovely, as far as kisses went. And she had been the image of loveliness; her eyes sparkling like the rising sun over rippling waters.

Shines Bright had been her name, and it suited her well, for when she smiled it was as if the light of the sun itself was hidden beneath her skin.

She quite literally glowed, in the bright day, which captured the luster of her hair and the dusky hues of her sun-warmed skin.

There had been a surreal dream-like glow to the whole encounter, perhaps that was why he remembered it so fondly and so clearly even though it was their only meeting. 

Later, he had often wondered if she had not been of this world but some other, brighter and more joyous one. It seemed that she too did not _fit_ , in the ways that he had not fit. He could not find her face among the Blackfeet tribe when he sought her out and he had not dared continue his searching in case she had been something _other_ \--- like he was something _other_ to his people. 

He recalled it well, their encounter in the woods. One moment they shared the same breath and the next he was alone. She had darted off, quick as the doe whose hide made the clothes she wore, and he never saw her again. She left him by the creek without a word of explanation and he let her go without a chase. 

Perhaps it had been curiosity that urged her to engage him, it did not matter, for they had both had their fun. He did not know why she had kissed him, where she had gone, or if she _was_ what he thought and he never would. 

The Blackfeet matriarch, Voices On The Wind, watched him when he came out of the woods alone with a look that said she _knew_. 

But what it was she thought she knew Standing Bear could not guess. She might have known of his divided bloodline, it was equally probable she knew what he would later come to suspect. 

Shines Bright had been not quite _human_. 

Voice On The Wind needn’t have concerned herself for he spoke to none of his thoughts about the beautiful girl with a radiant smile. He knew what it was to be not quite the same. 

_It has been a most worthy chase,_ he had decided, as he made his way to rejoin the others. 

Shines Bright had moved more elegantly than any girl he had ever known and her smile had been like the sun peeking from over the mountains, shy, secretive, and worth the wait to see it rise into the morning sky. He missed her loveliness even as the memory of it began to fade like low-lying mist rolling across the plains. 

Standing Bear had chanced a backward look when the wind blew carrying with it the melody of a young girl's laughter, but he saw no one there and reunited with his friends.

Thunder Boy had demanded to know where he had been but he did not explain. It would only cheapen the experience to share it with the others, especially Thunder Boy who was so loud and boastful of his exploits. 

And so time passed with an ease he had never known. Standing Bear did not take it for granted. He worked to be just another face in the crowd through the avoidance of pointless fights or stirring trouble. He was not like Thunder Boy who constantly stirred the pot, crowing for attention from the highest hilltop.

He boasted that he would become a chief and take six wives, to which Soaring Hawk snickered to Red Bear who stood beside him that it would take six tolerant and agreeable women to appease his need for attention. 

Standing Bear did not believe six women, no matter how tolerant and agreeable would be satisfactory to Thunder Boy who always craved more. His need was like a broken sieve; no matter how much was poured in he always sought for more. 

He held his tongue and let his friends laugh and speak among themselves. Perhaps he was wrong and Thunder Boy would change, given time. While his friend remained stubbornly unchanged the leaves began to take new color as the flush of spring turned the land into colors of yellow and gold as summer began its approach. 

Thunder Boy hated the heat and would often disappear for long periods to avoid being roped into chores or work of any kind. Often he had sought his company only to find him sitting by the river, naked _in_ the river, or by one with his feet in the water to drive back the heat of the day. Many times he had joined Thunder Boy, admiring the wide smile that spread across his face at his arrival. For all his foolishness, Thunder Boy was a good companion. 

Standing Bear was not blind to the strength that showed in his corded arms or the broadness of his shoulder that led to narrow hips, which he found compelling to his eyes. More than once he had felt the spark of interest rise up and more than once he had doused it. 

Thunder Boy was his friend. To ask for more was to seek trouble; he had spent fourteen years hoping for acceptance and he had no wish to toss it aside for a passing spark. He _felt_ it; he would not deny that seeing as he had no need to lie to himself. It would be the height of folly to deny the truth he felt burning beneath his skin, in his very blood, but he was not an animal driven to act through base instinct alone. 

He would not act -- that was the privilege of man. _Logic, reason, and control._ These things had more value than wants of the throbbing flesh between his legs. He chose inaction, seeking his pleasure with his own hand when such privacy could be afforded, which was seldom. 

This life he had was too good to risk. Thunder Boy and the others' friendships were far too important to squander for a moment's gratification. 

“Thunder Boy has gone off again my son.” 

Standing Bear looked up from his carving, his mother's sweet voice breaking him from his thoughts. It was just as well he did not linger terribly on Thunder Boy and what the sight of him naked, wet with river water, did to _his_ body.

“I see,” he said, and that was all that needed to be spoken on the matter. Now counted among the best trackers, he was frequently tasked with the finding and retrieving of his companion.

Yellow Cloud had more important things to do than hunt down the young brave. 

Standing Bear, however, did not.

Thunder Boy had made his way into nearby towns alone many times in the past. Standing Bear, wary of Thunder Boy’s solitary excursion and the trouble it could bring down on the heads of all his people, often followed. But this one time he had let him go alone. He should have known it would end this way, but had hoped _, foolishly,_ he recriminated himself, that Thunder Boy would return before he was missed.

“I will find him,” he said, even though the words were unnecessary for this was not the first time, nor would it be the last, he had to go in search of Thunder Boy. 

Thunder Boys’ mother fretted terribly which led to _his_ mother turning to him for assistance when her friend's son did not show up after many hours.

He searched for Thunder Boy’s tracks and gave chase when he uncovered them, following the scuff of his moccasins, the branches he had broken leaving behind a trail that all but announced himself, at least to Standing Bear, it seemed this way. The sun was beginning to set when he laid eyes on the little town declared _Rykers Junction_ on a board painted in red lettering,there was a rickety white painted church for the Christians, _Ed’s General Store_ , and a smattering of houses but not much else was to be found in _Rykers Junction_. 

Three horses were tied out outside of the general store where he stopped to splash water from the trough onto his face and slake the worst of his thirst. It had been a long trek, reaching this destination and while he had hoped for more, it was what he had expected. Small towns such as this were cropping up more and more throughout the territory and along the game trails. The nomadic nature of his clan allowed them to avoid clashing too often or too severely with the white settlers, coming west to make their homes. Hawk Woman was wise to limit their dealings with these people; sometimes it could go well for all concerned but the wind shifted too easily for his taste. A small tribe of Choctaw had been killed for the theft of a cow. 

Hawk Woman, being very wise, said that the larger fault was with the French interpreter; he had been drunk and lustful for blood sport. 

Standing Bear did not care who bore the larger blame, three children had perished in the retaliation, and six Choctaw braves. They were not his people but he recognized how easily it could have been Cheyenne lying dead in the dirt, all over one cow.

Thunder Boy, _foolish_ , _curious_ , Thunder Boy loved to sneak about these places.

Personally, he did not see the appeal, wooden houses that never moved, and scenery that never changed.

Still, it made finding Thunder Boy easy. 

Find the nearest settlement and he would find Thunder Boy.

Sweat made his hair stick to his head uncomfortably and he reached back, tying it with a leather thong to keep it from his eyes, his skin radiated heat from his running and he looked with longing at the water. The heat was suffocating, enough that for one second he considered jumping in the trough. 

He did not; it would attract unwanted attention to do so. 

_Get Thunder Boy, and get out._ That was his plan; he would not alter from it. In truth, places like this made him uneasy. White people and the way they looked at him made him uneasy. Some stared right through him when they passed, as if he were invisible, which was still better than the thinly veiled hate he’d seen in others. 

He did not hate them, but he did not _like_ them either. 

A strong gust of night wind gusted into him, a ghostly caress between his shoulder blades made him shiver as his sweat began to cool. 

Raised voices reached his ears, his head snapped up toward the door as Thunder Boy came sprawling out. 

Thunder Boy had been shoved out, more likely. He must have been careless to think he could sneak into this sleepy little town of white settlers with a smattering of Mexicans without drawing attention. 

_Foolish Thunder Boy, always getting into trouble,_ he thought even as he stepped forward to drag him to his feet and back home. Who was the more foolish, the fool, or the fool who followed? That was a fine question for another day and another time. 

Thunder Boy struggled in his grip but he could not let him slip-free. His friends’ pride had taken a hit there was no question but Standing Bear did not want to lose his life so soon. 

Three rough-looking men stood in the doorway, hands on their hips, and stinking of alcohol. One had a blue bandana around his neck and a scar disfigured the left side of his face. The look on his squint-eyed face said he wanted to give them one of a matching style. The two flanking him were ordinary, one was slim one was round at the belly, but their smiles were cold and dead like their eyes.

“We need to leave,” Standing Bear said, more to Thunder Boy than the men. “We need to leave, now,” he urged, his grip bruising tight on Thunder Boy’s arm. 

He had seen flashes of an old, _familiar_ , expression flicker across Thunder Boy’s smiling face, on those occasions when his blood was running hot. He never was sure what it meant.

Close to hate -- but this burned deeper, lower, in the gut than that emotion. It made his head hurt trying to make sense of Thunder Boy and his actions.

He saw it again as they hurried from the growing crowd of men. 

_Alcohol, guns, and two Indians alone were a bad combination on any night,_ Standing Bear thought while dragging his friend in his wake. Thunder Boy did not seem very concerned but that did not surprise him. 

Thunder Boy _never_ looked concerned. But he did look angry, his eyes pinched, and a flush high on his cheeks, as he stomped along behind him. 

Standing Bear withheld a careworn sigh, wishing someone else, _anyone_ at all, had been sent to bring Thunder Boy back home. 

The blessed silence lasted for two steps.

“I just wanted to-”

“Be silent,” he snapped and began dragging Thunder Boy out of town when he did not walk fast enough on his own will. 

He felt the hard stare of the men who watched, but that was all they did. Watch. Standing Bear knew he had to leave before they found an excuse to do more than watch. 

They walked home in the dark, using the light of the _Pleiades_ to find their way home. “I worry for you sometimes, you never listen, you never learn!” Standing Bear said, without pausing his stride.

Thunder Boy stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into him. “We cannot all be perfect, stoic warriors -- you never complain, you never disobey!” he shot back, “I know you fear a return to the old pattern but-”

Thunder Boy’s words died, unspoken. 

There must have been something on his face; something terrible for Thunder Boy was not well acquainted with tact. 

Had his eyes glowed weirdly again? Standing Bear cursed under his breath and turned away, covering his eyes with his hand, it was an instinctive action for him. The same way raccoons covered their eyes with their small, clawed digits to hide from hunters and their orange torchlight’s.

“Standing Bear? Standing Bear, look at me, come on, don’t be like that,” Thunder Boy commanded, his hand shoving him roughly.

His back hit a tree and Thunder Boy stood before him, chest-to-chest, nose-to-nose. Thunder Boy’s chest was heaving, his face churning with some unnamable emotion as they stared at one another, standing so close he could feel his breath and count the number of his eyelashes.

It shamed him to know his own eyes might be glowing in the dim starlight, announcing the darkness of his dual nature that he was so careful to keep hidden.

Standing Bear closed his eyes and turned sharply to the left. 

“Oh,” Thunder Boy said, coming to some conclusion. 

He dreaded to consider what _that_ might even be. 

“You really do fear that? Still?” Thunder Boy asked, releasing his arm when he jerked it from his grasp. He sounded…sad.

This observation struck Standing Bear as deeply wrong somehow. That was another thing uncommon from Thunder Boy. He did not do concern, the same as he did not do _serious_ or _sad_.

He had not known him capable, to be honest.

Standing Bear walked away from him, purposefully facing away so whatever his face might give away would not be shown for a second time. 

He opened his eyes, relieved when Thunder Boy did not appear alarmed or disgusted with his appearance. He had no way of knowing if his eyes were normal or not but he dared not broach the issue. 

Thunder Boy made no comment and he did not ask. He did not _want_ to know.

His friend crossed his arms over his chest adopting a wide-legged stance. “I did not realize.”

“No, you never do.”

“I am so used to you being my friend that I have all but forgotten there was a time when you were not,” Thunder Boy said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

“I cannot imagine life another way.”

“Hmm,” Standing Bear replied.

He had not forgotten, he knew he never would. His life was now divided into _before_ and _after_. He preferred the _after_ which included Thunder Boy, his foolishness, his pride, and his ready smiles, for all that he was a pain in the backside half the time.

Standing Bear said none of this aloud.

Thunder Boy had a big enough of a head, he did not need a _bigger_ one.

Thunder Boy signed, dramatically flinging himself to lean against a nearby tree. It had a wide, smooth trunk. It was a good place to rest for a moment. “I can do better, I can _be_ better,” Thunder Boy announced apropos of nothing. 

Standing Bear snorted, doubt plain on his face. 

“No, really. I can!” Thunder Boy insisted, grinning.

“Right,” Standing Bear said, diplomatic but unmoved. He might as well have said _‘you lie’_ for his friend knew him well enough to know what he meant from what he said. 

“And what has moved your heart to this decision?” Standing Bear drawled, rolling his eyes. 

Thunder Boy, predictably, did not answer. He shrugged and he laughed but said nothing more on the subject. “There is nothing wrong with them, you know? Your eyes.”

Standing Bear kept his mouth firmly shut.

He had plenty of proof that said otherwise.

_Wrong, strange, and evil,_ had been hurled at him before the age of six. He knew better than to believe platitudes, his mother and Little Fox had given many to comfort the child he had been. He had been more afraid of himself and the parts of him that he could not control than the dark.

Thunder Boy was oddly silent for the rest of the walk but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that sat easy on the mind like a soft, warm blanket on a cold night and Standing Bear forgot he had been angry for the trouble Thunder Boy caused.

Thunder Boy had not yet learned, not all attention was good.

He decided he could not fault him for that.

He had learned the hard way.

Over the next few days Thunder Boy disappeared and each time Standing Bear sought him out before anyone else could notice his absence. Each time he found him, Thunder Boy looked up from his hideaway, his cave, his spot by the rocks and the river, and smiled. Thunder Boy often smiled, but more and more he pointed it his way, he was not sure what to make of it. But he noticed.

“You always find me, Standing Bear,” Thunder Boy said.

Seeing no point in answering the obvious he said nothing. 

Something was brewing within Thunder Boy. He did not know what he but suspected resentment was the culprit. Thunder Boy’s eyes tracked him, a look in them he could not read. He gave up trying -- it was pointless. Thunder Boy’s mind was entirely his own, known only to him.

Standing Bear could lose with grace, given enough cause, and _that_ look on Thunder Boy’s face was enough of one. He did not want attention; let Thunder Boy take his fill of it until the mood passed. 

In the days to follow he lost a game of dice, learned from a trapper who had remained with them during a bad winter, and his arrow missed by a fraction the target they had set. Red Bear challenged Standing Bear and lost.

Thunder Boy, smiling widely, challenged Standing Bear and won. Thunder Boy pinned him beneath him and he made a good show of it, but lost with equanimity. 

He had little doubt his friend knew what he was about, but he never called him on it. Happy, so long as the light remained fixed on himself. Except for the wrestling, he left to be alone after that incident. 

Thunder Boy was acting strange around him and he did not know what to do about it. His friend watched him with a heat in his eyes, it was new and it burned hotly, but he did not think it was anger or resentment. Not anymore.

He let it alone, hoping that it might reveal itself in due time. Standing Bear had no desire to return to older animosities, or divide friendships. High Wolf did not sway so easily with the currents of the wind. More and more he and the other young men heeded his advice when he suggested they not follow Thunder Boy into trouble. 

That was _his_ duty if only so he could get him back _out_ of it again.

Thunder Boy never asked why they did not wrestle as often as they used to and he never asked why he looked at him like _that_. He knew well the machinations of his heart, and with them knew his reasons, but not those of Thunder Boy.

Four nights after the town incident Standing Bear procured a single bottle of whiskey he’d traded for with a trapper, far more accustomed to dealing with Indians and less likely to cheat than a merchant. Thunder Boy grinned, slapping him on the shoulder as they shared their first drop of whiskey. It had burned their throats going down and its taste was not worth the trouble it took to procure it; neither boy partook of that _particular_ vice again.

Thunder Boy still disappeared to creeks and water holes and tavern tents, Standing Bear wearied of corralling him from trouble left him be, sometimes, but not always. He would not become his _keeper_.

Except, he already had, had he not? 

His strange dance of hot looks and mercurial moods continued, Thunder Boy never explained and he did not ask. He suspected it was not resentment that made his eyes follow him with an intensity that rivaled the fire's heat. No, that was not anger he saw, but something else entirely. He waited for Thunder Boy to speak his mind, gave him many chances to do so when his friend did not he resigned himself to never _quite_ knowing. Standing Bear did not wish to be any more different than he already was. So long as Thunder Boy remained silent, he had no cause to speak.

Standing Bear found himself fitting in more and more with each new season. So long as the firelight did not catch on his eyes, which still shone strangely in the dark, he was to his people the same as any other boy among the tribe and this pleased him greatly.

Thunder Boy and the others laughed and howled like wolves and he laughed alongside them, for with old prejudices swept aside none could see the difference. Over time the warriors and the women began to forget why they had ever feared a child or the young brave he was becoming. 

Except for White Star, he never forgot and Standing Bear often felt the burn of his stare hard on his back. He stood taller in those moments; he was a young man, not a boy whose ears could be boxed or face hit without deep cause. 

Standing Bear made sure there was no cause, he helped, he hunted, and he learned, just as quick and as well as any other of the boys. For some, he might never be enough but the thought no longer pained his heart. The road to failure began with trying to please everyone. It was not possible. He learned this the hard way. White Star was not willing to set aside their past actions and Standing Bear accepted it; he no longer needed the warriors' approval. 

The Voices atop the cliffs had spoken many things, imparting many profound and powerful truths, and restored his wounded pride. Never again would he kneel before White Star. 

Standing Bear learned that he no longer had to step lightly when walking among the tipis and the campfires, for he was welcome to come and go as he wished. 

Soaring Hawk’s father spoke with him a length one night, for the first time ever and when they parted ways he began to feel the magnitude of the change in those surrounding him; there was a lessening of hostility that had always clung to his back like Bad Medicine. 

The difference was as clear to him as the warm heat of the sun and the cold dim lights of the stars. 

He could feel it in the air, where before it had been heavy and thick with tension that weighed on his chest and shoulders now it had become light and sweet as springtime breezes gusting through the plains.

Hawk Woman had opened the doorway for him; with her blessing life was better than it had ever been, and not just for himself. His mother had more friends, always fluttering about in her wake. She had more women to talk with than only Little Fox as they fetched water from the rivers and gathered into circles around the fireside. 

There was a strange lightness in his chest as if a weight had been removed. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, _happiness_. 

Great change swept in like heavy rains to ease the pains of long summer heats that dried the grass into yellow, desiccated husks of brittle straw. His mother smiled more than she frowned and seeing true happiness on his face doubled her own. He was glad to see these things, thanked the Gods, too, for he loved his mother. She was the gentle wind that carried him each time he fell, the soft touch for every cut and scrape and bruise. Her clever words mended the patchworks made of his wounded heart when he had been a little boy. Swift Coyote was a good woman and a good mother to him. He could not have asked for more from the woman who brought him into the world. And while it was true that White Star was not good to _him_ , the warrior had ever been unfailingly kind to his mother, and on most days that was all that mattered. Hawk Woman had made it impossible for White Star to continue stirring trouble and so their family settled, the tension easing, if not forgotten. 

Standing Bear worked hard to mind the peace. He had learned the wisdom of silence and it served him well as he began to adjust to what he had taken to calling the Great Change in his head. The Voices were right, for White Star's hour was waning with each passing season. He could be patient, learn what was worth learning from the man. He would do his best to live up to _all_ his names and remain above petty quarreling. Howling Wolf the son almost drowned in a river gave way for Standing Bear, who wished to protect _all_. 

White Star was not his favorite person but he did not wish him harm. Standing Bear tried to release the past more fully but found this was the best he could manage. He did not know which side of him hated the man more, the restless _darkness_ that stirred beneath his breast, or the _human_ boy who had wept bitter tears at his feet. 

Standing Bear sighed, looking down at the animal that had taken shape as his thoughts wandered among the winds of change that had come to pass. His carving had become a fox, its size too small for a wolf or coyote. It was not his best work but it would likely sell at the next trading post they stopped at. The merchants liked to buy them directly and then sell them for even more money in their shops. He had been this way often enough that they knew him on sight and often would rush to see if he had new items for their shelves. Oh yes, they rushed, but also they pretended they were _not_. It made for a curious spectacle that amused Standing Bear. He was careful not to let it show on his face, which remained outwardly equable. The white man's pride was easily bruised. Standing Bear guarded his expression against outsiders. The hard lessons of his youth had at last proven useful. 

Standing Bear turned the carving over in his hands inspecting his work, improved with the knife Hawk Woman had given to him as a gift. It was neither his best nor his worst, but it would do. He did not always sell and trade with the settlers. Sometimes he gave them to the small children who gathered to watch him work. It was hard to turn down their outreaching hands and hopeful eyes on those days he worked longer and made enough to sell and those he set apart. The rest he gave away with a free and willing heart. 

The little girl Dancing Fawn, the fourth daughter of Hawk Woman, was especially fond of the carvings. When no one was looking he tucked the small, carved animal into her hands and sent her away.

He had learned other things too, besides the self-knowledge that he could not forgive White Star and that carving would calm his mind. He had not needed to use his pebble for almost a year. He kept it, secreted in its pouch, a reminder of what it had cost to reach this point of acceptance. 

He has long since made peace with Hawk Woman and they spent many long hours talking about important things in her lodge. 

_‘I feared what might come to pass and forgot that I had the rare chance to shape the mold before it was cast,’_ Hawk Woman had said, entreating him to forgive with her eyes and the hospitality she had shown.

_‘It was this that hardened my heart, fear is like the worm in the apple seeking to ruin the fruit from the core,’ Hawk_ Woman had explained, her expression resigned. She knew she had done wrong by him and it was enough for him to reopen his heart to her. 

It was no easy thing but he forgave her. Holding to that grudge would do no good. It was in the past, which was where he wished for it to remain. 

Hawk Woman, having accepted him, began to teach him about _why_ he was feared. She did this in the telling of old wintertime stories, ones, which spoke of his father’s kind. At her feet, he learned the full horror of what it was to be a skinwalker. She passed on many things, some of which perhaps must have caused her old doubt to stir in her breast. Hawk Woman taught him the importance of names and why it was that he had a secret one known only to one other living person, the old white-haired Medicine Man Lame Bull. 

Though it pained him to keep such an important thing from his mother he did not share it, not with her and not with Thunder Boy. He learned the significance of names when he had learned how a full-blooded _skinwalker_ was killed. 

Weapons made from a White Ash tree, the disabling effect of juniper and roe, and the speaking of the _hidden_ name. 

Standing Bear knew he was not a full-blooded _anything_ but he did not care to risk his name passing the lips of those who wished him ill. That one name he kept for himself alone; the cost of sharing it was too high. 

He did not have a death wish. The speaking of the hidden name could prove to be the death toll. Or it might not. There was truly no way to know so he kept it secret. 

He knew what he was, what he was not, and what he hoped to be. 

He was _not_ like his father, not entirely, and though he had learned to hide his differences they still existed as part of him. Some he learned extended beyond his father's curse but he considered that trifling in comparison. 

Better to be different in the turning of his heart, than the blackness of his blood. 

But he was _not_ fully human, either. It was that kinship he had felt with Shines Bright from their first meeting.

He walked the space in-between, _neither this nor that_ and it did not trouble him any longer. A time would come when that differencewould be what was _needed_. He was sure of it. There had to be some _purpose_ to his existence, abhorrent to the natural world as it was. If there were not, he would forge one.

As for the latent stirrings of his heart, well, he and patience were old friends. Time would reveal the truth, he was certain.

“Standing Bear,” a voice called out to him.

He looked up, head canted to the side as he waited.

Yellow Cloud grinned, plucking the wooden hawk from his hand. He held out a red apple in exchange, “For my granddaughter,” he said.

Standing Bear looked up, a wistful expression crossing his face. It pleased him to see Yellow Cloud doting on the young girl. It was a good reminder that not all warriors took after his mother’s husband, White Star, in their handling of their children. 

“Take it,” he said, “No cost today.”

Yellow Cloud shrugged his massive shoulders, tucking the carving into the fold of his clothes.

“I do not know how I did not see it sooner,” the other man said, with a distant look on his old wrinkled face. “You are a good man, Standing Bear, Swift Coyote raised you right.”

Yellow Cloud did not allow him time to gather a response as he shuffled away to give his daughter her surprise, which was just as well as the old trackers' words caught him off guard. Standing Bear watched him go, his eyes wide, and his mouth half-open.

It snuck up on him in most unexpected ways, the changing of his life now that he was accepted. He began whistling off tune, absently fiddling with the glass bead his mother had given him as a child, it was small as the nail on his pinky finger but it was white in color with an uncanny shine.

He had had it for as far back as he could remember…

“Have you seen Thunder Boy?” he asked Hawk Woman who harrumphed, shaking her silver-haired head, braids falling tumbling like water down her back.

She snorted, her mouth becoming a hard line of disapproval. “If he is not to be found stuck to your side I know not where he is Standing Bear.”

“I despair of that one,” she muttered, “always with his head in the clouds, or some game. Yes, he should have been Head In The Cloud,” she grunted.

“He is not so bad…” Standing Bear said.

“You are kind to say,” Hawk Woman replied as she patted his forearm as she passed. “Well, do not just stand there like a lump of coal, go find that friend of yours before trouble finds _him_!”

He did not waste any time following her instructions, it was the will of his heart to find Thunder Boy anyhow. Her words faint and whisper-thin were carried to him by the gentle winds as he made for the last watering hole they had passed. _‘What a strange thing it is, the call of the heart, it heeds its own instruction and like the river goes where it will, taking heed of no counsel but it's own.’_

Standing Bear thought on her words for a long while, and what they meant. They were with him still when he found Thunder Boy, merrily catching salmon with his hands, hip-deep in a river. He could see the curve of Thunder Boy’s buttocks as the water lapped against his hipbones and quickly shifted his gaze higher. 

He had seen Thunder Boy naked many times before, and been _seen_ equally as many. 

Thunder Boy preferred to do his fishing naked, though Red Bear had warned him if he was not careful the fish might mistake his prick for a worm. 

Had that been what called him here, to Thunder Boy? Was it the call of his heart that bound them in friendship and stirred in his body the cinders of desire? Or only the desire of his body? 

He swallowed, recognizing that if it were only about pressing naked skin to naked skin he would not be so bothered that he did not know Thunder Boy’s thoughts.

Thunder Boy was passionate and indiscriminate; if a thing pleased him he did not hold back in seeking what he desired. He did not think he would be refused, and if so, not harshly for that was not Thunder Boy’s nature.

_It was not a bad way to be, really, passionate, and full of life._ But, also, he had no desire to be another conquest; even one that Thunder Boy would never crow about. 

As he was thinking Thunder Boy looked up, soaked through with water sluicing down his skin and hair, the sun causing him to squint, and he knew that his reasoning did not matter. If Thunder Boy ever asked, he would not refuse him.

A smile spread across Thunder Boys' face and Standing Bear felt his heart quicken to see it, to know himself to be the cause. 

_Yes_ , he decided. If anything had called him forth, to this place and to this moment that stretched out before him it was the wishing of his heart. For good or for ill, his regard for Thunder Boy was unrivaled.

He was _foolish_ and he was _reckless_ , with his head in the clouds that was true enough, but Standing Bear knew all that and did not care. He was not so perfect; in this too they were well matched.

“Ah, Standing Bear – you have found me again!”

“So I have.”

Standing Bear stood on the distant bank, watching with a deep and abiding fondness shining in his dark eyes. 

_Be still,_ he commanded his heart which thudded like a bird that beat its wings against the bars of its cage. _There is no cause for rash action._

“You were not so hard to find,” he said, dropping down to sit by the river. Content to watch the water froth and crash against the bank, spraying him in gentle mists that dampened his bare chest and hair. 

“Hmm,” Thunder Boy said, a gently intended mimicry of his sternness. “Have you considered that I am tired of hiding?”

Standing Bear pretended to think about his answer, in reality, he was lost in the moment, leaning forward with his head resting on his hands. His ears caught the soft padding of a fox nearby, the crisp snap of twigs under the hooves of a white-tailed deer and her fawn, and the distant flapping of wings. He peered up, catching a glimpse of yellow color flitting among the trees. 

The fox had come snooping for the salmon Thunder Boy had laid out across a flat rock, it was good that he had joined or there would have been nothing to show for his efforts.

“Do I bore you, Standing Bear?” Thunder Boy laughed, but his tone was light, and his grin was steady, letting Standing Bear know he had not meant it. “I know that look, listening to the woods again, are you? I do wonder what you hear, what secrets do _we_ give away without even knowing...” his voice trailed off.

Standing Bear frowned leaning forward with his gaze fixed on Thunder Boy who was speaking oddly. This was not the usual talk he was hearing from him. It took no effort to listen to Thunder Boy; it took a little more to look _deeper,_ the rough cadence of his words, and the hint of a grimace that pulled his smile down at the corner. 

The fast _thump, thump_ of Thunder Boy’s heart which mirrored his own.

He stood, wading out into the river as he spoke, the rocks cut his feet but he did not flinch, his whole focus pinned to Thunder Boy. 

“I hear the fox, it is foraging for food, I hear the white-tailed deer, and it’s spotted fawn,” he said, closing the distance with each word. He stopped, pressed close to Thunder Boy’s side, feeling the wet, moistness of his skin. 

“I hear your heart,” he added, his voice gone husky, “how hard it kicks, beating fast when you look at me.”

Thunder Boy, for once, did not speak with words. 

Thunder Boy roughly pulled him closer, his arm around his waist until there was no space between them. He pressed his body against his own, his nakedness to his hips and chest. The suddenness of his actions startled him, leaving him feeling exposed. 

It was an uncomfortable feeling to have. He did not know what he had expected but suddenly Thunder Boy’s passions were spilling out into action, his flesh rubbed against his clothes, which clung to his skin heavy with river water. 

Standing Bear inhaled the raw, earthy scent of mud and water and the woods that clung to Thunder Boy’s skin, a sharp contrast to the crisp smell of dewy foliage, which was all around them. He liked how Thunder Boy smelled, though this too was not unknown to him. It was too fast. Thunder Boy became all he could _see_ , and _feel_ , and _hear_. His sharp, rasping breath seemed louder than the rushing water, the proprietary grip of Thunder Boys’ hand dipping down to grab his ass as the other boy pulled them closer, hip to hip. It was just shy of alarming. He felt his own face redden, his breathing short and flustered. 

_Be calm, be calm,_ he reminded. Forcing his breaths to remain steady to not pitch himself headlong into another breathing fit. Standing Bear moved to throw him off, he could do it, he was strong enough to do it. It would be easy. 

But something stopped him. It was a small price, was it not? To let Thunder Boy touch and press against his body, as he liked when it was what he wanted. He came at him like a hurricane, a whirlwind of desire as he aligned their bodies, wet, and slick with pre-come, hard, and throbbing for want of _more_. 

It was a lot to take in, and he did not know _what_ Thunder Boy wanted a moment's gratification? To know what it was to rut against a half-blood? He cut short his thought, which was unfair to Thunder Boy. It was likely simpler than all that, and what did it matter? 

For him, it was more than a passing desire, but he did _want_ it. He wanted to know the shape and feel of Thunder Boy's body, the salt-like taste of his skin, the kisses of his mouth, and the touch of his hands. 

He would even lay down for him; take him between his legs as a woman might. If Thunder Boy asked, he would, he knew. He had no desire to dress like his mother or to fetch water instead of fight, but he did desire to know _Thunder Boy_ in a way different to that of brothers.

His body burned hotly at the very idea. 

Standing Bear let it happen as Thunder Boy grunted in his ear, his length rubbing into his stomach and hipbones, his hands slippery with water on his waist meant to keep him still. He resisted the urge to laugh -- as if Thunder Boy could pin him if he did not _allow_ it. 

Thunder Boy grunted when he came, his cheeks red with exertion and his eyes very wide. As if it was only then when the throbbing wants of his body subsided that he realized what he -- what _they_ had done. 

Thunder Boy’s dark eyes were over bright and his breathing hard as he came down from his headlong rush to pleasuring himself. 

He resisted the urge to snort or make a rude comment about his deeply exaggerated prowess. 

_There would be time enough for that later,_ he thought. Standing Bear had scarcely had time to enjoy the feel of his breathing in his ear, his hand on his waist before he spilled his seed across his stomach. 

_Well,_ he thought, looking down, his mind still fuzzy and his body still crackling, _cracking_ , with nerves as he balanced on the edge of coming.

Thunder Boy touched with a hand that now shook at the mess he’d left on Standing Bear’s stomach, his eyes flicking up nervously. 

Standing Bear moved to speak, but Thunder Boy beat him to it, and he worried what Thunder Boy _saw_ , that he might _not_ have seen, or had been _incorrectly_ read. 

He had wanted this, he had just wanted _more_ , too.

“Standing Bear,” Thunder Boy said, then shut his mouth. “I -- I am sorry,” he muttered and left moving quite fast in the opposite direction, snatching up his clothes from the riverbank. It would have been amusing to see if it didn’t make his chest sting painfully.

Standing bear watched him go, waded from the river soaking wet and let himself slide down the tree, the roughness of the bark scraping at his back, his own eyes flicking down to the mess Thunder Boy had left _him_ to clean and went to the river bank to kneel, cleaning himself of Thunder Boy’s seed. The last remnants of his bodily desire had fled at the sight of Thunder Boy fleeing the river, as though chased by rabid coyotes. 

He wondered how many times he would be left to clean up after Thunder Boy, who still did not know the meaning of either patience or restraint. It was a sobering thought. The water felt pleasantly cold to his overheated body and he was glad to be clean before he returned to join the others.

Thunder Boy did not look up when he rejoined High Wolf and Red Bear hours later, in fact, he did not speak to him much at all for six days following the incident by the river. In that time Standing Bear let him alone, knowing the value of reflection. Besides, he needed time to gather his own thoughts. He gave his friend space he clearly needed and waited. Each passing day wore as his heart but he withstood it, knowing it was the right choice. A thing that happened once, and only once, needed never be spoken of again, but if more were desired there would need to be words shared between them, eventually. 

It was only when Thunder Boy avoided the others as well, Red Bear who glared with sullen eyes, blaming _him_ for Thunder Boy’s self-shunning, and High Wolf who shrugged and did not care, that he pressed the issue.

Tired of his distance and the tension it had begun to create, Standing Bear went to _him_ , annoyed that it had once more fallen to him to fix things between them. He knew his own heart but Thunder Boy kept his own from him taking his own counsel and sharing it with none. He did not know its contents in this matter.

He looked at Thunder Boy who looked back, something like contrition on his face that bowed his proud shoulders. _For once he knows shame, and for once he need not know it at all,_ Standing Bear mused, for he had found inside himself no shame. It was a thing he would like to happen again if Thunder Boy were willing, and more _patient_ in his exertions. 

He enjoyed Thunder Boy’s smile, his touch, and his earthy scent. He did _not_ enjoy being pawed and pulled at only to be _left_ unsatisfied. _Alone_ and heavy with far too many thoughts.

Standing Bear looked at his friend, at the sad, lonely image he made sitting on a fallen log and said what he had said to Hawk Woman, in what seemed so long ago. “All it well with us, now come, the others are missing you Thunder Boy.”

Thunder Boy frowned, not willing to be so easily moved from his chosen course. Standing bear signed, he did not know how to be clearer than that. Thunder Boy was the one who was good with words, not he.

“And you, Standing Bear?” Thunder Boy asked, his eyes downcast as he shuffled his feet, behaving as if Standing Bear had come before him with a frown on his face and anger in his eyes, instead of the hand of friendship he now offered.

He waited, unspeaking. Thunder Boy would speak his mind or he would not, it was not for him to speak Thunder Boy’s words _for_ him.

“Have _you_ missed me, Standing Bear?” 

“Does the wolf miss the moon when it hides in the dark?” Standing Bear asked, stern and unsmiling. “Without it, there would be no point to the singing of its heart.” 

He allowed the ghost of a smile to drift across his face before he schooled his expression once more, becoming blasé and smooth at the pebble he carried, though he no longer required it. Thunder Boy’s eyes widened, something hopeful and genuine flashing across his face, which he did not try and hide. 

It was then that Standing Bear knew that the touching by the river meant more than a passing interest soon to fade. There was precious little Thunder Boy was genuine about; if he was to be counted among their number he could be happy with that. 

Perhaps this added _difference_ , like the others, would not be so bad in the end. Not if it meant Thunder Boy looked at him like that. As if he knew all the mysteries of the world.

He had never seen his friend so bleak-hearted as he had been moments ago. It did not sit well with him, and he worked to set it right. “Now stop sulking, you embarrass yourself with this attitude,” he said, pulling Thunder Boy to his feet. 

“Come back -- you have been missed.”

_I have missed you._ He did not speak the words aloud, but Thunder Boy heard them as loud as the coyotes' midnight howls, and the yellow songbird twittering among the trees. After all, his friend knew him well enough to tell what he _meant_ from what he said. There was enough time to work on his _patience,_ else all their encounters would be ended before Standing Bear had received his second kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: 
> 
> Dear Readers,
> 
> This chapter was a monster to write with at least 2 revisions -- that said, feel free to leave thoughts and comments [if you so desire]. 
> 
> I apologize that some of this is "filler" and "information sharing" -- I also apologize for historical inaccuracies. I don't have a major in "history," but I have availed myself of intensive google searches? 😅 That said, I do hope you enjoyed something in the chapter _"To be Better, For Want of Love."_
> 
> _The “real” battle, which began with the misappropriation of a cow and ended in death and an interpreter for the army called “Auguste,” stirred trouble._
> 
> https://en. wikipedia.org/wiki/Grattan_ massacre
> 
> https://www. astonisher.com/archives/museum/crazy_horse_wintercount. html
> 
> _Two-Spirits, not well or deeply incorporated in SOTS because I lack a deeper understanding but it remains something worth knowing and reading. This article provides a historical overview of “Two Spirits” and their position in their respective tribes. The roles they played and how Euro-European interference works to eradicate such belief for being too different from its own practices._
> 
> https:// indiancountrytoday.com /archive/two-spirits-one-heart-five-genders-9UH_xnbfVEWQHWkjNn0rQQ


	6. Past: Parting of the Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 1725; he and Thunder Boy have been together for three years, knowing 10 winters of peace, broken only with minor quarreling. Then, the white bead given to him by his mother who received it from her mother, Thunder Heart Woman, began to sing in his head, calling to him.
> 
> Death circles his friend of old, like vultures around spoiled meat. 
> 
> If he does nothing the outcome is certain….
> 
> Once more Standing Bear finds himself torn in two, his heart divided.

#  _**Wyoming: 1725** _

His vision blurred, black spots swarming his eyes like a hoard of locusts and his ears buzzed with the intensity of a thousand insects. Something had gone terribly wrong – he should not be here. He could _feel_ it. There was somewhere _else_ he was needed. But where? He had no answer, the question circled round and round in his head like a snake that ate its tail.

This ceremony was not for him, it felt as if his blood was on fire and his insides were being torn into two halves. Something tugged at him, an unseen force, wishing to pull him from this place to somewhere _else_. He kept from swaying in his cross-legged position by bracing his arms on his calves; no one would pay him any heed. This was not about him; this was about Yellow Cloud who needed healing from the coughing sickness that made him spew blood from his mouth and cough, as if he were hacking up his lungs.

This was not about him, and he could not make it so. Standing Bear inhaled, slow and steady through his nose, relieved beyond measure that they had no used sage tonight in the sweat lodge. It would have been more than he could have borne on this day; it felt as if his insides were at war. He did not know why.

He could not leave; it would draw unwanted eyes and disrupt the healing ceremony. He could bear it a little longer. Distantly, as if through a heavy fog he felt Thunder Boy tap his side just below his third rib, an unobtrusive habit he had, his silent way of asking, _‘are you well’_ without speaking. He tapped back twice, _yes_ , and returned to centering himself, minding that nothing crossed his face.

Nothing would, if he did not will it, of this much he could be certain.

Standing Bear could feel low pulsing vibrations, as the white translucent bead half-hidden by his medicine pouch, began singing in his head. It was something none other than him could hear, he knew, because not a single head turned his way in annoyance as it thrummed with a will separate from his own. It called to him, with such ancient primal power surging through its melody he was reminded of the Voices.

This was an ancient magic at work, something deep and inescapable, he could not tear himself fully from its grasp, only put it off a little. He ached as if he were being driven from his body, spirit cast out to wander the Red Road too soon, invisible threads pulling at him, insistent and demanding leading him to he knew not where.

He had answered Thunder Boy to hastily he realized, blinking hard to regain his focus and sort his thought beyond the dull throb at his temples, it was unpleasant. He was not well, he felt sick, and every aspect of his body wanted to cling to the white bead around his neck, but he knew, deep down, if he were to touch it now things would be set to motion that he could not stop. The desire moved within him but he resisted the pull.

_Not yet,_ he commanded.

As if in answer to his commandment another strong force of energy hit him hard in the chest, his breathing ceased for a moment, and when it returned the sensation and the sickness were gone. It was with great relief that he saw no one present felt the strangeness of what had just transpired.

Thunder Boy knew him well enough to be suspicious, but he also knew him well enough to not point it out publicly for others to see, a thing for which he would not thank him. They would be speaking later, he was sure.

First, though, he needed to speak with his mother. Perhaps she had an explanation for the strangeness attached to the bead; what strength it had for such a frail and delicate looking object. Standing Bear refocused his thought, hard though it was, when he could still feel the hot burn of the bead against his skin, yet it left no mark. He senses no malice from it, only a strong will that would overrun him if he let it. He would not. This, whatever it might prove to be, could wait.

Yellow Cloud, however, could not wait; he was growing worse day by day. Soon he would have no strength left to tight and the sickness would win.

Red-hot rocks had been placed in a central pit around which they were arranged and various, sweet smelling medicinal herbs filled the air, which grew heavy from the heat and steam. Again, he thanked the Creator juniper had not been used, it sat ill with him leaving him sick and lethargic for days. The sweat lodge represented Grandmother Earth’s womb, the heated stones where her body, which supported all lives from great to small.

The fire used to heart those rocks were the symbol for the light of the world, and the source of all life and powers. Standing Bear felt his own spirits being cleansed and uplifted, seated among his fellow tribesmen. During the ceremony Red Bear asked for guidance, White Star for knowledge, his eyes boring into him across the pits.

Standing Bear bit his tongue, knowing what knowledge White Star desired. The _secret_ _name_ he shared with no one living or dead, not in prayer or whispers or murmurs to the Creator himself, and why should he when the Creator who knew all things knew it already. White Star refused to let the past die.

Thunder Boy returned focus to Yellow Cloud, adding his voice to the number seeking his cleansing of the bad humors that attacked him, leaving him weakened by this coughing sickness that sapped away his strength. His lover was much changed from the boy he’d been, temperate when needed, and quicker to read the tension in a room.

Standing Bear listened to the elders' words, the ancient prayer that had been passed down through the ages from one person to another that led to this moment. He could feel the air humming with ancient knowledge that he did not believe the others, even the old and withered Medicine Man Lame Bull, could sense. There was a weight and texture to it, a wisp of some foreign and strange scent that escaped him, but he could feel it in his bones and in his blood, which no longer writhed for escape.

_Grandfather, Mysterious One,_

_We search for you along this_

_Great Red Road you have set us on._

_Sky Father, Tunkashila,_

_We thank you for this world._

_We thank you for our own existence._

_We ask only for your blessing and for your instruction._

_Grandfather, Sacred One,_

_Put our feet on the holy path that leads to you,_

_and give us the strength and the will_

_to lead ourselves and our children_

_past the darkness we have entered._

_Teach us to heal ourselves,_

_to heal each other and to heal the world._

_Let us begin this very day,_

_this very hour,_

_the Great Healing to come._

_Let us walk the Red Road in Peace._

More rocks were tossed into the pit, more steam hitting their faces as the heat trapped within the dome began to reach its zenith. He could smell the burning of the rocks, and the scent of rosemary permeated the space. And when it was done they all respectfully exited the lodge and not even White Star could be moved to rudely push or jostle when their shoulders brushed in passing.

It was something of a relief to take a breath of air that was not heavy with sweat, steam, and fire. He was lightheaded from the experience and would have fallen, but Thunder Boy anticipated this -- it had happened before -- and easily propped him up with a companionable arm thrown around his shoulder.

“You must keep your feet, else I decide to call you _Bear Who Falls A Lot_ ,” Thunder Boy teased.

He snorted, “Try it,” he said, his tone implied a warning but the curl of a smile gave away the game.

Thunder Boy laughed, not at all put out by his stern glaring. He was temperate, yes, but still ready with a smile and a laugh. Standing Bear would not have him be any other way.

“Let us go into the woods,” he suggested, his thoughts returning to the white bead around his neck.

Thunder Boy chortled, “And you call me crude.”

Standing Bear frowned; pulled from his thoughts of the strange magic he had felt earlier by his friend noisy exhale.

Thunder Boy was never hard to find, just listen for the _noise_ , his loud beating heart, steady as an oak, and his booming laughter.

“What? Oh,” he said, shaking his head when he paused to replay his words from before.

“Always with your head in the dirt -- or off in the clouds,” he muttered to himself, before explaining more loudly, “I do not want an audience for what I am going to try.”

Thunder Boy, now intrigued, followed close on his heels and no one who observed their actions ever tried to stop them. Often did they go off together for one reason or another, sometimes in the company of High Wolf and Red Bear, sometimes not, but none commented or cared enough to do so letting them be in peace. Twenty-six winters he’d seen and still he did not take for granted this peace. It was no longer strange, it was like a well-fitted winter coat, a night spent close to the fire, and it was his -- his _and Thunder Boy’s_ now, for three years.

This time was no different than the rest. Hidden by the dense thick of trees and brush, surrounded by the sweet scent of the woods and newly flowering plants, they sat down. _He_ sat down and Thunder Boy followed suit at his leisure, but he did _follow_.

“Well?” Thunder Boy prodded, and Standing Bear revoked this earlier thought about temperance. Thunder Boy knew such things best when there was a _roll-_ _in-the-woods_ at the end of his waiting.

He resolved himself, closing down his focus until all he felt was the scratch of the coarse thong by which the white bead hung, pressing at the apex of his chest, the dryness of the ground below him, and the wind that carded through his hair in a brisk Autumn breeze.

_There,_ he thought, feeling with his mind rather than his senses the low thrumming that danced out of reach, a glowfly skating inches above the reach of his arm.

_There you are._

The thrumming became louder, until his hands, which were buried in the soil, began to tremor. _Come to me._ He called out to it, waiting, as it grew in volume. Sweat beaded to his brow and he had the faint sense that time had passed, a lot of time. But it was vague, as if from a distance as the world seemed to bend and wave around him like a woman weaving a basket.

The energy pulsed, hard and fast, exploding, leaving him feeling exhilarated and verging on the razor edge of climax, his blood fervently singing.

_Show me._

And it did.

Oh, it did.

************

Breathing hard, Standing Bear blinked his eyes to clear them, waking to find himself laid down on his back, Thunder Boy shaking his arm in a panic, which was odd. His lover was not prone to panic.

“Thank the Creator -- I thought you were dead!” Thunder Boy said, his brows drawn like heavy black thunderclouds of despair. _Such concern for him!_ Though it did not surprise him these days, he did not mind the feeling it caused -- this being wanted. It never became old. It was like a small trinket, always close and near, that he took from its pouch to look upon from time to time, something reserved for his eyes alone. It was a good feeling, warmth in winter, and a cool breeze in summer.

Mentally snorting at his own wayward thoughts Standing Bear briskly shook away from his inner meanderings.

Thunder Boy was still waiting for an answer, and he looked as if he expected him to keel over on the spot, his heart was beating very fast, the worry was sweet, honestly, but unnecessary.

“Well, I am not dead” Standing Bear grunted as he sat up, slow as a man thrice his age. He felt tired, as if from a long run, during which he had taken neither water nor food. It was an unpleasant nauseous feeling that roiled in his belly -- like hunger, but _not_ hunger at all.

“So tell me, what happened? What did you see, because you have lain like a man dead for many hours, if you had not woken when you did I would have gotten Lame Bull to help you,” Thunder Boy said, and he knew that it was no exaggeration, his lover meant every word. He had thought him dead.

“I am sorry, in truth, I did not know what would happen.”

“But something did?”

“Yes, something did.”

Thunder Boy frowned, his face becoming serious and dark with misgivings. “And will you share with me this something?” he asked, his expression shifting so fast and quick for him to read in full. But he could guess at his meaning.

“Yes, Thunder Boy, I will.”

He composed his thoughts, trying to find the words to share some of the stranger parts of himself that he had shared with no one, ot even his mother, but verged on telling Thunder Boy who would follow him anywhere, if he asked.

“When I was a boy...I found a strange rock by the river -- no, be quiet I will tell this once,” he said, before Thunder Boy could poke fun. This was not the time or the place. His lover read the seriousness he broadcast and resigned himself to listening.

“The rock...called to me, the same way this white bead called to me in the sweat lodge, and again just now it answered my call, I do not know how or why so do not ask. Only that it is familiar to me, it happened long ago, where I met the blue-eyed Spirit Boy. I share this because it was he who I saw again, only he is older, much older than the last time I saw him in this manner, and he is in trouble,” he explained, “I have never understood _why_. Perhaps it is not for me to ask, only to act…” he considered, trailing off.

“Does he not have people around who can help?” Thunder Boy said, after a long pause where he considered his words. “Why must it be you this white bead speaks to? Where is he, this Spirit Boy? Can it be done quickly, before the herds and our tribe move on to the next hunting ground?” he asked.

“Thunder Boy, he is not from here,” Standing Bear confessed, his eyes darting up to meet his lover's gaze head on. He was not overly surprised that what he meant was not yet apparent. It was a hard thing to believe, even for him.

“And when you say ‘from here’ you mean?”

“I mean he is from another time, perhaps another world.”

Silence. Deafening silence, so loud his ears hurt from it. Standing Bear refused to take back his words for they were the truth. Spirit Boy was from a place called Absaroka with a population of 25,876 people and the year had been 1977. A place where there was always good food and water to be found within the house, and Crow war parties did not intrude on his happy idyllic life.

Apparently his young friend neglected to mention the part about strange houses, strange transportation methods, and that no matter the place or the time one inhabited there would always be people willing to do bad things. This time it was Spirit Boy who would soon need his help. He was not the lonely be he had been, Spirit Boy had allowed him to _believe_ he could have a friend, Hawk Woman had made it _possible_ among his own time and people.

He owed them much.

“My father said to be sure before involving myself with a half-blood, he never said anything about you having such powerful medicine, or such strange friends,” Thunder Boy muttered, crossing his arms. “Is -- is this Spirit Boy even human?” Thunder Boy asked, to which he could only shrug.

“Am I?” he shot back, shooting him an annoyed look. “It does not matter. If I can, I have to help him.”

Thunder Boy’s face softened, the hard line of his mouth gentling. “Are you human? What kind of question is that, Standing Bear?”

“A fair one,” he shot back, unwilling to be gentled at the moment. “My father was _yee naagloshii_ , unless you have somehow forgotten.”

“I have forgotten nothing!” Thunder Boy snapped, his voice rising in volume to match the name he bore.

He was so accustomed to his joking he forgot how fiercely Thunder Boy could scowl, how loud his voice could boom, like a crack of thunder that split the sky with fresh clarity.

“Why would you say such a thing? I know about your father, sure, but I also know your mother who you discredit by thinking her blood would be so easily overrun,” Thunder Boy gulped for breath, and he said nothing waiting.

It had been a pause in his speech, not an end to it.

“Never mind! I know why, it is ever the same reason. Even after all this time you doubt yourself, though how that can be astonishes me,” Thunder Boy said. Standing Bear remained silent.

Thunder Boy had been right even after all this time, and Hawk Woman's kindness, he doubted himself in the long hours of the night, listening to the coyotes wailing and his own thoughts churning.

_What if they were wrong?_

It was a quieter affair these days, and less of a consuming terror than it had once been, but it was not wholly gone. It was a fear he would carry unto death, that his father blood would win out, and he would be unmade and reshaped as the son of a skinwalker, a creature with bottomless pits for eyes and an appetite for destruction.

Thunder Boy’s hand raised to cup the side of his face, pulling him in until he was half on his lover’s lap, their noses brushing, as they shared breath and then a kiss.

Deep, and intimate, Thunder Boy quested into his mouth, his hand at his neck holding him closer still as though they might at any moment melt into one being, one heart.

All tension went out of Standing Bear leaving him malleable to the touch and inclined to be moved by Thunder Boy’s will, whatever it might be. He closed his eyes and gave himself over, letting his lovers passions overrun him, braking over his back until he was lost in a sea made of Thunder Boy’s body and will, his hands which urged him closer, and his tounge which quested deep, brushing his own as they surrendered themselves over to the moment.

They broke apart, breathing hard, their lips stinging from passion's bite. Thunder Boy did not release him fully, his hand carding through his hair and gently pulling the tie that held it back undone.

He allowed it, closing his eyes as his lovers hand buried in his hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp until he was keening, tilting into Thunder Boys' touch the way the trees tilted against the wind.

Thunder Boy’s breath was a faint mist over his cheek, as Standing Bear lay down in the green mossy ground, Thunder Boy’s weight coming down from atop and he happily made a place for him within the cradle of his thighs. He groaned, arching into Thunder Boy’s body, seeking friction and deeper contact, as he burned to _touch_ and be _touched_ in return. 

His lover braced himself with an arm on either side of his head and their noses brushed as Thunder Boy sought his mouth. He unfolded for Thunder Boy, stealing the breath from his lungs as he stole a kiss.

When he opened his eyes all he could _see_ was Thunder Boy.

Thunder Boy's shoulders bracketed him, and in the moment it looked like he was holding up the evening sky, which was painted the deep orange of a slow burning fire. He let his lover _hear_ him, the soft moans that he could not contain -- that he did not wish to hide -- his hand scrabbling across bared skin, _holding_ , even as he was _held_.

Then, like the slow cresting of the winds through the woods came the familiar words, which he loved secretly, even if not all of him yet believed. Of all the things he could _hear_ , the voice of Thunder Boy, low and husky with desire, was what he favored most in the world. Thunder Boy's words, like his body, were a warm blanket on cold nights, and Standing Bear could stay cocooned within them for hours without end.

“You are the kindest most honorable man I know, Standing Bear, someday I tell myself, you will see this.”

“If not today?” he would ask.

And Thunder Boy _always_ replied: “Then tomorrow.”

Time passed and this time he did not lose a single, precious moment of it, wrapped up in the scent, taste, and welcome weight of his lover moving _over_ him, _within_ him, until Thunder Boy was once more all he could _feel_.

It was almost a moment separate from time, as the world held its breath before the long, well-pleased, exhale.

************

As with all moments born of passion and love, it could not last forever, eventually reality began to intrude and the lovers returned to their separate thoughts, though their hands remained entwined as one. They lay on their backs staring up into the black sky, shot through with a million stars, casting their hideaway in a pale cold light as their bodies cooled from their love making.

“You will speak to Swift Coyote tomorrow then,” Thunder Boy said, already knowing Standing Bears’ thoughts. “And there is nothing that I can say to dissuade you?”

He propped himself up on his elbow, turning a searching look on Thunder Boy who bore it with good patience, neither alarmed nor flustered by his intensity.

“What would you think of me, if I were to abandon a friend in trouble, Thunder Boy? Would I still be worthy of you?” he finally asked, a heaviness settling in now that the question was out as he listed between two hard choices. Both left him with a heart halved in two.

To save Spirit Boy he must leave the company of his lover, and there was no certainty of a return. There was no certainty at all in this matter of strange magic and stranger worlds he was being pulled between.

He had hoped to have left this feeling behind; this being torn in two with no clear path to set his feet upon. He had no desire to become stranded, a stranger in a strange land. His _home_ was here; it was in the intimate smiles Thunder Boy bestowed him, the light as it danced across his darker, tanned skin, and the steady beating of his heart.

He knew his place; it was here, with Thunder Boy, now.

“Worthy?” Thunder Boy repeated, his words spilling out slowly and careful as honey from the back of the honeycomb, this was how Standing Bear knew how serious the conversation was to his lover.

“I know what I should say -- that you must do the honorable thing, the _right_ thing. Or all of this must contain some greater _purpose?_ Yet, I have no wish to speak words that urge you to leave,” Thunder boy said, licking his lips nervously, his hand brushing hair back behind Standing Bears’ ear so he could better meet his stare. “I would rather say nothing, than say that.”

“You are dear to me, understand?” Thunder Boy asked, letting his hand fall away. “But I will say this, nothing you do could make you unworthy in my eyes, Standing Bear. I am ashamed that I did not see your worth sooner. It is clear as the sun rising over the mountains.”

Standing Bear snorted, rolling his eyes even though his lover could not see. Thunder Boy and his softly spoken declarations made his face burn warmly, though the words were not unwelcome to his ears that drank them in gladly. “What a poet you are tonight, Thunder Boy.”

Quieter, moved to tenderness, Standing Bear added, “I shall call you _Silver Tongue_ , for your words are the high winds through the trees at night and the breath that makes the campfire flutes sing.”

“Poet you call _me_?” Thunder Boy shot back, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Still, so much time was wasted” Thunder Boy said, nostalgia for their youth coloring his tone with something deep and sad.

“The past is the past,” Standing Bear shrugged, quickly moving to reassure his lover that he held no grudge for the actions of the boy he had once been. There was no room for resentment in his heart, which was full to bursting with softer, gentler sentiments.

“Hmm,” Thunder Boy said falling into silence, and Standing Bear almost laughed to see some of his non-verbal tendencies had rubbed off on his lover.

That was _his_ passive way of disagreeing without stirring an argument.

“I will go with you, when you speak to your mother.”

“I had assumed you would.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“We should return,” Thunder Boy muttered, and he sounded dismayed it made Standing Bear’s heart twist, tiny needles stabbing into his heart, for his lover with the ready smile should never sound so lost.

“We should” Standing Bear responded, even as he straddled Thunder Boy’s hips, his palm at the apex of his chest, pinning him to the ground. Thunder Boy let out a soft _oomph_ , his head falling back.

He stared down at Thunder Boy, through his lashes, in the way that he knew made his eyes shimmer -- just a little -- with uncanny light.

Profane as it was, Thunder Boy had said it was like _‘staring into the first spark of creation,’_ he did not care for his eyes so much, but he knew Thunder Boy did.

He waited to see what Thunder Boy would do, feeling his lovers hardness twitch with interest against his ass. Thunder Boy was a passionate man that had never changed, and he delighted in pleasing him when the mood struck. Riding him like he would a horse until they were sweat slicked and panting, the musk of sex mixing with the scent of cedar trees and vibrant lavender sprigs that scattered the forest floor.

Standing Bear smiled, a flash of white in the otherwise dark when Thunder Boy’s hand rose to grip at his waist. Already groaning in anticipation.

For him this was answer enough.

“We could, but we won't,” Thunder Boy groaned, and for the second time that night the world became still and calm, as it if to held its breath, and all Standing Bear could _feel_ was his lover, strong and handsome, and trembling with desire, which burned hotter than prairie fires, underneath him.

He pleased himself and Thunder Boy several more times before the long exhale, the turning of the world resumed, and their satisfied breathing loud in the otherwise silence of the woods they inhabited, where the trees loomed above like giant shields of green over their naked bodies, entwined even in the deepest of sleep. 

************

Morning arrived far too soon. Standing Bear watched Thunder Boy sleep in the pale grayness of the twilight hours; in that moment he had the strangest feeling. As if a morning such as this would never come again. It was an unpleasant feeling that blanketed him in a tangle of dread. He was ensnared in the trappings of honor and obligation that could not be denied.

He could not stay in this moment forever.

This was the breath before the storm brewing on the horizon and he cringed to think what the future would hold. How he wished to stay here, though. It shamed him that he so deeply feared the coming parting of him and Thunder Boy, who slept on as charmingly oblivious as he had ever been. Standing Bear gently traced the sharp curve of his sleeping face, rare emotion apparent on his face. The trees would not tell, the wind would not whisper, and so he did not care so much what might be laid bare for all the woodlands to see.

How he cherished this man, his smiles, his laughter, his foolish ways, and his gentle eyes.

Yet, if he did not leave Spirit Boy would die, and so go he must. It was the right path no matter how heavily it weighed on his spirit. He had not spent half his life trying to be _worthy_ only to quail like a defenseless old woman before the coming threats. He would go, because he must. But first, he needed to speak with his mother about the white bead. It would be best to know all he could before attempting the insanity he planned.

But before even that he must awaken Thunder Boy who slept like the dead. Careful not to wake him too soon he straddled his hips, keenly feeling the soreness from their sex, a pleasurable ache between his hips, and pressed close so they were lying chest-to-chest, Thunder Boys morning erection pressed into the groove of his hip.

“Time to wake,” he said, a whisper against Thunder Boy’s ear who groaned, aching towards him as he roused. He grinned, knowing him to be fully conscious, and deftly rolled to his feet. “Come, we have things to do.”

“Can I not _come_ , and then have things to do?” Thunder Boy groused, rubbing sleep-grit from his eyes and pulling twigs from long black hair, which was longer than his own.

“Please?” he asked, leaning back on his elbows in the dirt.

Standing Bear remained unmoved.

“No.”

“Why not?” Thunder Boy protested, petulant and groggy in the way he always was when waking or wanting sex first thing in the morning. Most of the time he was willing to indulge him, but not this morning.

He really did have things to do.

It was not every day that magical artifacts began singing in his head, calling him into another time and place.

Standing Bear frowned at Thunder Boy, his arms folded across his chest. “My ass is sore, for one, and I have things to do. You may accompany me, or you may sleep here until the sun sets again, it is your choice.”

He did not wait to see what he would choose, already walking back to where he knew his mother's tipi to reside.

Thunder Boy chortled. “I’m up, I’m up!”

He could hear Thunder Boy shaking dirt and twigs and moss from his clothes and the loud thump of his steps as he hurried to catch up, and smiled.

“Perhaps later,” he considered shooting Thunder Boy a speaking look, as he paused outside his mother's home, just to delight in the comic expression that crossed Thunder Boy’s face before he disappeared behind the flap leading inside.

He was pleased to see they could have the on-coming discussion in White Stars absence. The man was not there and he did not pretend to care by asking after his whereabouts. His mother would see through his lie, so he did not bother with what would be a wasted effort. He did not begrudge her happiness and she respected his choice to be absent from her company more often than not.

He had patience, but it was not without its limits.

It was this, more than anything else, which mean that she did not scold him his impatience for not asking before slipping inside, as he should have done. She tugged him tightly to her chest, and he wondered, did she know?

She always seemed to. Her arms wrapped around him with uncommon strength, and he forgot all other thoughts but his mothers love. She had never been stilted with her affection. How dearly he had missed it. The sharp jut of her chin dug into his shoulder as the warmth of her embrace seeped into him and Standing Bear allowed himself to release the tension pinching at his eyes and mouth.

He inhaled the sweet sent of lavender from the flowers she collected and used to scent her clothes and hair. He had missed her, though he knew the absense was half his own fault. He would do better in the future he promised himself. Surely he could withstand a little baiting and snarling from White Star. The man who had become something of a toothless dog in Standing Bears' regard who was no longer cowed by the older mans rage.

He feared what stirred within far more.

She pulled away, taking his face in her hand. “Now, tell me, what has brought you here this morning?” she asked. “Come in, if you will Thunder Boy,” she added, “you are welcome.”

Thunder Boy shuffled in, greeting her with a wide smile and endearing, awkwardness he only had with Swift Coyote. His mother bore it with good patience, as she bore most things. This, he knew, he had inherited from her.

The thought had struck him once when he walked alone in the woods, if he took more after his father as White Star feared he would have devised a plan to be rid of the man, once and for all, long ago. But he had never done this. And he knew, he never would. He was not wroth the trouble and he would not shame himself in the eyes of the Voices who had bestowed on him his new pride and new name.

_Be better,_ it was his mantra after that meeting at the canyon cliffs. He would walk the high road, and if he relished how White Star shamed himself with his fear and distrust of _what-might-be_ , but had not come to pass?

Well, he was an imperfect man.

“Share you mind, as you once did, my son, before Thunder Boy and his games came along, taking all your attention.”

Standing Bear ducked his head, properly, albeit gently, chastised for his neglect. “It is this,” he said, taking the white bead from around his neck. “It behaves strangely, speaking in my head, showing me things in a place and time that is not our own.”

“Lame Bull was right, it seems, though I wished it were not so. You have strong medicine, Standing Bear, strong enough to match your fearless heart.”

“No, no, do not interrupt your mother,” she went on, shushing him. “I wished it were not so. But not for lack of faith in you, Standing Bear. Far from it! You have always been a respectful and honorable spirit --- but it is the curse of those who have the power to enact change for the better to do so, weather they wish it or not.”

She signed mournfully, as if something terrible had already come to pass and this caused Standing Bear to feel the beginning to fear in his own heart. His mother was not a weak woman, easily frightened.

“The bead was a gift from my own mother Black Bird who received it from her mother Thunder Heart Woman , so the story goes that the bead in your hands had called to Thunder Heard Woman, singing and speaking and glowing in her hand. It showed her strange things, she told to her daughter, Black Bird. She had to go, she said, that the white bead would take her where she needed to be.”

His mother fell silent, a tired and drawn expression deepening the faint wrinkles at the corner of her mouth.

“What happened?” he asked, half afraid to hear what she might say.

“Did – did she come back?”

Swift Coyote folded her arms across her chest, as if cold, though the inside of the tipi was warm and the air was not biting.

“She came back, in a way, but Thunder Heart Woman was changed, and was given a new name, Silent Woman. Whatever she took part in remained a family mystery -- she never spoke of it. Not even in later years,” his mother admitted. “That white bead, my son? It enacts change, for good or for ill? That cannot be foreseen. It has the power to change the wearer. Be wary.”

Thunder Boy looked deathly pale, Standing Bear jabbed him in the ribs so he could fix the arrangement of his face. There was no point for _two_ long faces to be looking at him as if he were walking across a rattle-snake pit on a thin plank of wood. His mind could not be changed, to turn from the road now would be cowardly. If his mother was correct then this power had come to him for a reason, all that was left was to act.

“This was the story I learned as my grandmothers knee, it is all the knowledge I have to give on this matter, do with it what you will.”

“Standing Bear,” Thunder Boy said, but nothing followed the voicing of his name.

He scowled, Thunder Boy did not need to speak it. He knew his lovers thought on this matter, it was written as plain as the slightly-crooked nose on his otherwise handsome face.

He too did not need to speak. Thunder Boy knew he could not turn back at the eleventh hour. Spirit Boy was in trouble. This was not an undertaking he could pass to someone else, nor was it something he could ignore. Spirit Boy would die, that had been clear. If he chose to do nothing, and to remain here in this tipi with his mother and Thunder Boy beyond the prescribed time and place, death would come for the friend of his youth. This was not something he could allow, he owed him a debt. There had been many times when Wally and the strange, striking, blueness of his eyes had been the only thing that he had, when mother was busy and White Star became unbearable, wounding in ways that did not show.

He did not bruise easily, he learned this early in life. It was another thing White Star had used against him growing up. It was a pleasant benefit now, he could take a lot of blows in hand to hand and shake them off quick, useful in a fight.

It also meant Thunder Boy could mark him as he pleased during their nights together. It was often gone by mornings first light cascading down through the canopy of trees that he and Thunder Boy retreated to most often for their little assignations. Standing Bear felt a smirk twitch at his lips, thinking on the acts that they engaged in and how being far from any humans ears mean they did not need to be so _quiet_.

He would go, without Spirit Boy and his earnest talk of his own time he might never have had the courage to become friends with Thunder Boy, High Wolf, Soaring Hawk, and Red Bear.

“It is settled then, you will go?” his mother asked, “yes, I can see it on your face, you will do what you think right.”

His mothed went to him then, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing so tightly that his ribs ached, but he uttered no complaint fearful that he was hugging her back with just as much strength. He did not want this parting, though it was necessary.

He feared being stuck, somewhere far from those he loved.

Over her shoulder his eyes drifted to Thunder Boy who was silent and stern, a tiny squinch between his brows, and his hands were clenching and unclenching were they rested on his powerful thighs.

Thunder Boy would not argue. Not here, before Swift Coyote, and Yellow Cloud’s family only across the way.

That would come later, in private.

Possibly loudly, too.

It would only make things harder, as his mind could not be changed, but it would happen nonetheless. Perhaps their would be time for a sweeter parting of the ways when Thunder Boy’s anger with him dissipated.

“Go, go now, before I change my mind and decide to keep you here!” his mother said when she released him. “Do not think yourself so much that I could not!” she added, waving her finger, a twinkle of mirth lighting her eyes.

“Never,” Standing Bear said, clasping her hand tightly between his own, which were larger, feeling the callouses from her hard work and labors, the crease in the palm of her hand, much like his own. “I would never doubt you, mother.”

“I love you as the bear loves salmon,” he whispered in her ear, an old refrain from an old saying that had passed between them in days of youth.

“And I you, my son, my shining star -- no matter where you are,” she murmured, her hand a light touch against the side of his face.

“Though my body remains here in this place, my heart travels the twilight roads with you.”

When they finally parted he could see that there were tears misting Thunder Boys soft eyes, but he said nothing, hastily wiping at his own. It changed nothing.

Spirit Boy needed his help, and he would provide it.

He took his leave of Swift Coyote, hating that his news resulted in tears but content that what needed to be spoken had been given voice. He loved his mother, and she him. It was small comfort, when the unknown loomed large on the fast approaching horizon, but he would not cast it away, instead choosing to use her steadfast love to fortify his heart against the hard conversation that was still coming.

He followed the path of the river, walking far and without direction, breathing in the scents of various flowers that were scattered along the riverbanks, dots of yellow sunshine rising from the earth, staining for the great blue sky. He was alone, but when Thunder Boy was ready he would know how to find him.

Follow the river, simple.

He and Thunder Boy had not been parted for any great length of time since the fumbling of their youth. It would be strange to walk into danger alone. He knew, instinctively, he could not bring his lover with him, for he did not hear the singing of the small white bead. He was glad he could not hear it, that it did not speak to him. The only thing worse than stranding himself in a different world would be to strand Thunder Boy there too.

Finding a place that he liked, where the earth was welcoming and the sounds of life were abundant, Standing Bear knelt in the dirt, closed his eyes and waited. Connected with the earth he listened to the song of the lark, the gentle rushing of the river that cut directly towards a sparsely populated settlement named _Black Oak_ , established by a mountain man who called himself Grant Hughes, his friend Curt Brody, and his Cheyenne wife. It was small, with hard enough people for their presence to disturb his tribe as they passed through taking pains to avoid close contact outside of a little trading.

Standing Bear did not know Brody’s wife, for whom Brody had supposedly named the small town, but she was reputedly very attractive.

Red Bear, who had heard rumblings of this, wanted to see if it was true, or only her father and mothers parental-love crowing. He was admittedly curious, having heard many rumors, but largely indifferent.

There was only one heart – one face – he loved. Standing Bear heard him as he approached; he was twenty yards out, the clean snap of the flower stems giving him away. Brush rustled and parted for his long strides, like the feathers of a hawk roosting in the trees above announced his presence to Standing Bear.

Soon he was much closer, his breathing sharply regulated and calm in a way that was both uncommon and hard to manage, he had stilled the hard pound of his heart behind its cage of bone. But not enough.

Still, he was learning.

For three years his friend had tried taking him by surprise. He never had, today would be no different.

“So,” Standing Bear said, into the silence.

“So,” Thunder Boy mimicked, annoyed and frustrated and spoiling for a fight, from the way he ground his teeth, and the hard pounding of his heart. Standing Bear did not have to turn to look to know these things, he heard the grit of molars clenching, and the harder thudding of Thunder Boy’s heart. It had spiked sharply at the sight of him, still kneeling.

It only became so pronounced when he was like this, angry with him and wishing to fight, knowing he would _still_ loose.

“Will you look at me?” Thunder Boy bit out, beginning to pace.

Standing Bear remained motionless, quieting his own fear so he could address Thunder Boy and his, before he slowly rose to his feet, turning to face Thunder Boy as he wished him too.

“I hear you so clearly I do not need to _see_ you,” Standing Bear responded, “your heart pounds fast and furious, it beats like a war-drum in my ears, and if you grind your teeth any harder you will unseat them.”

He tried to lighten the tension, “You will become toothless like old Grey Mountain.”

It fell flat.

Thunder Boy was not willing to be moved from his high horse yet. He spoke with a calm and even tone, not wishing to add fire to the flame that Thunder Boy was slowly fanning into a prairie fire.

He could almost feel the heat, and it burned, though he did not let it show on his face.

Thunder Boy’s anger pained him deeply. It always did, when they were as cross ways of one another. Thunder Boy simmering and unreasonable, growing only more irritated when he became cooler and distant, instead.

It was the only way he knew to be, and could not change, not even for Thunder Boy, whom he loved.

“Don’t look at me like that – as if I am the one doing something so – so stupid!” Thunder Boy said, folding his arms across his chest, muscles quivering with high tension.

Standing Bear would have done anything in that moment to sooth it away, anything bar allowing Spirit Boy to die.

“Why are you really angry with me? You had all but accepted this before,” Standing Bear asked, hoping to cut to the heart of the issue and settle things quick and painless. “You understood my thoughts. What has changed between last night and today that has shifted your heart, Thunder Boy?”

Thunder Boy pursed his lips, a hard thin line, his eyes narrowing at he looked him in the face. As if through sheer will he could cause him to fold in half in this way as he could in other, more pleasant ways.

Standing Bear knew Thunder Boy would be disappointed and let him look, staring back just as hard.

That he enjoyed lying beneath Thunder Boy, surrounded and pinned down by the strength and heat of his powerful body did not mean he wished to be _mastered_ by him, too.

Which Thunder Boy well knew, and had never tried. Thunder Boy had drawn himself to his full height, which was six inches greater than his own, imperious and certain that his way was now the right way – because his way did not require Standing Bear _leaving_.

He was posturing like a young _wolf-leader-to-be_ , his nostrils flaring as he contained his unease with the situation at hand, challenging the normal way of things because he did not like the terrain he spied ahead.

Standing Bear was not willing to be led, when he knew his own mind and that of Thunder Boy.

He was afraid, that was all, and he did not blame him. He to felt it too; the gnawing dread of changing times, an end to the peace he so dearly cherished.

“Did you not hear a word your mother said? Are you still so willing to throw away your life for a boy you have not spoken to since childhood?” Thunder Boy finally demanded. “Will you risk the fate of Thunder Heart Woman, altered by what she took part in? That should be a warning, to you who are often much clever than I. These are not things men are intended to meddle in!”

“You speak well, and with thought,” Standing Bear said, into the lull of Thunder Boy’s hot storm of speech.

“Do you think this had not occurred to me? Do you think that I rush into this with my eyes closed? That I do not wish I had never heard this singing in my head or seen what happens if I do nothing?” Standing Bear asked, his own frustration beginning to grow, nourished by the call of danger he heard with his heart, disquiet which only grew with the passage of time.

There was not long left, before he must act.

“I wish I had stole the damned thing from your neck while you lay sleeping and I watched as it glowed, then we would not be here!" Thunder Boy growled, instead of answering he stepped forward his large hand closing around the white bead around his neck, he felt the thong dig into his neck as Thunder Boy clenched it in his fist.

Standing Bear brought his hand up, grasping Thunder Boy’s thick wrist in his hand, as he freed himself unlocking his fingers one by one.

“You would have stolen the right of choice, had you done so,” Standing Bear snapped. “Or am I not allowed to choose for myself?” he challenged, “am I to only think as _Thunder Boy_ wants?”

“No!" Thunder Boy said, so loud and troubled he turned startlingly pale, withdrawing his hands and several steps more, his hands limply hanging a this side and look of regret on his face. His words faint and hollow, he added,” I would not ever want that, Standing Bear.”

Standing Bear believed him, and allowed his own anger to subside, like a blustery wind cracking against the great mountains, scattering into meaningless bits of ash and dust.

“Have you considered what you will do if you become stranded,” Thunder Boy asked, his face still downcast and unsmiling. “Do the people you leave behind mean so little to you?" Thunder Boy asked, and perhaps he had not mean to be wounding, but it was.

He felt the blow like a fishhook snagged in his flesh.

_If he did not care so much he would not rage so hotly_ , Standing Bear reminded as he took a breath, stepping further into himself as Thunder Boy’s words seared his heart. Standing bear inhaled sharply, biting back the cuttings thing he wanted to say, to return _wounding for wounding_.

“Is it me you doubt, Thunder Boy? Or that I might not be able to return – or better yet, do you think that I am placing Spirit Boy _above_ you in my heart with my choice to go? Can you answer me this truthfully?” he asked, resisting the urge to fold his arms across his chest, leaving himself as open as he knew to be in Thunder Boy’s presence.

He laid himself bare, taking in the hot glare of Thunder Boy’s gaze and letting the burn settle against his skin, and still, he asked for more. He allowed the silence to linger, listening as Thunder Boy’s heart, so fast and hard before, calmed to its normal state.

Thunder Boy sighed, and it was like watching the toppling of a great oak, all the fire and fight gone out of him, leaving his broad shoulders bowed. “You’ve always seen right through me, haven't you?”

“No, it is not _you_ I doubt, Standing Bear.” Thunder Boy shrugged, helpless and uncomfortable with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do. “It is –”

“ –this parting of the ways?”

“Yes.”

The heat of anger morphed into a different, more pleasant heat, as they stared at one another, knowing this might be the last time.

“So much wasted time,” Thunder Boy said, and Standing Bear did not know if he meant the argument today or all the time they spent figuring out their own hearts.

“I have know you _now_ , and would _know_ you again before leaving,” Standing Bear admitted, closing the space between them that remained. “All that is promised is now,” he said, his hand resting over Thunder Boy’s heart, it spiked again as they locked eyes, once more speaking without words.

Without delay he pulled Thunder Boy down into a bruising kiss, slotting their mouths together, noses pressing and teeth clacking as they crashed together with the force of a cleansing storm.

Standing Bear and Thunder Boy laid aside their anger, letting it lie forgotten, overcome by the heat that bloomed from their hearts and the desperate crush of their bodies.

The sun might not rise for them in the coming days; it was this knowledge that had pushed Thunder Boy to the rashness of his youth.

************

Lazily running his hand down the notches of his spine, resting at the curve of Standing Bear’s ass as he lay onto of his body Thunder Boy sighed, a noisy exhale of breath that tickled his lovers ear.

“If you do not return I will have to find you, though I know not how, or else I will have to live long enough to meet with you again, in this distant future” Thunder Boy announced, only half-joking. “You have made me better -- I do not wish to return to less than who I might be with you at my side.”

Standing Bear snorted, made indolent and lethargic from their frantic lovemaking, it had been rough grappling followed by the tight pounding of their flesh joining to one as quickly as possible, leaving no room for anything in the space between their bodies. His earlier ache was magnified, but it was a welcome fullness that had taken him over as Thunder Boy fitted himself inside, his rough thrusts made his body light up with the flames of desire until they collapsed together in a sweat-slicked state of satiated exhaustion and tangled limbs.

“Now? Now you find your silken tongue?” Standing Bear asked, teasingly rubbing his thumb just above Thunder Boy’s hip, it made his muscles twitch at the ticklish caress.

Thunder Boy laughed unable to stop himself, smirking widely. “I put my tongue to better use than fine _words_ when I keep your company.”

He led his head drop, resting against the vulnerable point between shoulder and neck breathing in the scent of must, dirt, and something uniquely Thunder Boy.

“It is time,” Standing Bear said, wistful but determined as he stood and redressed himself, the white bead was calling, singing loud and incessant in his mind. He could not put off his journey any longer without dire consequence.

It was then, as he was tying back his hair that he finally noticed the weapon Thunder Boy brought and raised an eyebrow in question, “Did you and my mother plan to hold me hostage, after all?”

He did not mean the question in earnest, but wondered about the presence of Thunder Boy’s newest, and most favored weapon. He’d recently won it in a game of dice with a fur-trapper last month, a _Henry Rifle_ it was called.

“As if I could,” Thunder Boy said, shaking his head. “I came to argue, but knew I would loose. This is a gift, you cannot take me with you, I know this is so because I trust you would have said if that were possible, but you can take this.”

“I cannot promise its return.”

“All the more reason to take it with you.”

“Very well, thank you, I know how you favor it for hunting,” Standing Bear said, recognizing the magnitude of the gift. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, a physical token of Thunder Boy’s affection that he could keep.

It was a fine gift, to be sure.

“I favor your life more, be safe Standing Bear, failing that,” Thunder Boy paused, smirking, “be _well_.”

Thunder Boy had schooled his face in false cheer; he appreciated the effort and did not remark on its dimness, compared to his usual smile it was but a flicker of distant light. He kissed him, instead, inhaling his lover’s scent as he drew back. He did not know what might happened when he opened his mind to the magic of the white bead, and he did not want to stand to close to Thunder Boy when he did it.

_I am here,_ he thought, his hand closing around the object feeling it give a little pulse. He felt it, the hairs in the back of his neck prickling as the strange energy washed over him. His announcement was not enough, more was required for it to take effect; he had to make a choice of his own free will.

 _I am ready – let us go._ There, he could feel something indescribable happening, the singing became louder and the pulse of the white bead mimicked the pattern of a heart beat, _thunk-thunk_ , _thunk-thunk_ , it became first warm, then searing, he grit his teeth in pain, as the world shifted and weaved around him. In the distance he heard Thunder Boy called out his name, he sounded alarmed.

It was to late for turning back.

Standing Bear closed his eyes giving himself over to the pulsing magic of the white bead as it glowed and burned white hot against his chest; the last thought before darkness overtook him was that of Thunder Boy’s laughing smile, and the crisp scent of dewy foliage and orange autumn leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: _I do not own the “chant” that is from the site listed below and intended to be part of the actual event still practiced. ___
> 
> _  
> _Please feel free to share your response if you so desire._  
> _
> 
> __  
> _The Chant_  
>  https://www.pachamama.com/sweatlodge/  
> 


	7. Present: When The Stars Align (It is Rare and Wonderous)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1991, but Standing Bear did not know that. 
> 
> The Cheyenne Brave called Standing Bear closed his eyes in the past and opened them somewhere new and strange, with one singular purpose: _Save Walter Longmire._
> 
> The wind was cold and the road was long, but he was not alone. When help was most needed, help was provided. By luck or by some grand design -- who could say?

#  _**Absaroka, Wyoming: 1991** _

_Pressure_. His first conscious thought, as an immense heaviness weighed his entire body. As though a massive oak tree had fallen across his chest, and he could not breath as his throat constricted. Shit, he hated that feeling. Not being in control while his breath wheezed harshly through the air like a dying deer. 

A call back to the weakness of his youth he was loath to relive.

_Calm, be calm_ , he cautioned, bringing stillness to his churning thoughts. 

It hurt, his blood _burned_ in his veins. 

His ears were popping, swinging between too loud and too silent, all at once. He groaned, regretting his heightened senses, which were all screaming; buzzing in a hundred different directions. His stomach felt strange, that moment between leaping from _Crazy Woman Ledge_ and diving into the cold water below. Except, there was no refreshing water to cool the fire raging through his body. It just burned, too hot and too much. His skin prickled and tightened, and his insides unraveled and re-stitched. The white-hot surge of magic inundated his senses. 

_Too much, too much,_ he mentally shouted, as the world faded in and out around him. He lost all sense of time. Alarm rustled in his chest, a faint stirring as he brushed hands with fear. Nothing was certain. He could not tell up from down, his body pulled in two directions. His pride was not such that he did not know the smallness of himself in the midst of the _unmaking_ of time.

Into this madness the magic of the white bead spoke with the voice of the winds in the trees, and the water that babbled through the brooks. It crashed with the force of rapids against his unprotected mind. It hurt of course, but not like the burn that itches below his skin. Its will pressed against his mind, a wave crashing against a feather, tossed about in the running river. 

_Save Walter Longmire._

He wanted to laugh. Bitterness held his tongue. It was this command, which wrapped around his ribs and squeezed, until it was a physical ache. It pricked at his pride, too. What was his purpose in all this if not to do this very thing? It put his hackles up, even as he struggled to adjust as the magic poured into him, making its directions known. He remained half afraid to open his eyes. What if he should discover he had become stranded _in-between_ worlds? Stranded. Like so much driftwood cast from the sea he was spat from the lingering in-between spaces and tossed headlong into someplace new.

His feet staggered, weak as a newborn colt, but he was standing and there was dirt beneath his feet.

_I am here, am I not?_ Standing Bear wanted to shout into the black, he had left behind everything he knew. He would not turn tail and run like a coward into the night. Wally, or rather _Walter_ , did matter to him, too. For who else would he have risked so much? He risked all and the magic thought to question him now that he was here, far from home?

_Peace, young one, peace,_ the magic seemed to say. It no longer forced its thought upon him with the strength of an anvil striking the rod, sparks like a fire in his head. Its feel shifted from something so fast he could barely glimpse it to a soft meander, a leaf lazily drifting down the stream. It had become soothing and calm. He was glad for the change. He tired of holding together this splintered sense of self with bare hands as his body burned from within. 

_Walter Longmire is a captive in a rickety old shack, which resides in the shadow of the Big Horn Mountains,_ it said, relaying a series of images that served as a guide. Two men, one tall and slim and one wide shouldered with a large paunch at the belly from a sedentary life. They were armed, wearing large bulky winter gear guarding the man, holding a death vigil outside as the minutes ticked by.

He had time, but not much.

The magic and its presence withdrew like a light going out all at once; it was something of a relief to be alone inside his own head. When it ceased to speak reality crashed down on his shoulders. The roiling and frothing mess it had made of his mind and body surged to the forefront of his attention. Standing Bears’ stomach heaved and he retched into the dirt. He doubled over, his hands braced on his knees as he emptied his stomach, his last meal mixed with bile and blood.

_Traveling did not come without its costs._ _You were right, Thunder Boy. Perhaps man is not intended for this time traveling business,_ he thought, feeling his body attempting to regain its equilibrium. His insides re-stitching internal organs that felt as though they had come loose inside as time bent around his body in ways he did not understand. If he were a normal man he would be near dead, and utterly useless. But he was not quite human and just this once it worked in his favor.

_Strange times, indeed,_ he thought as he slowly straightened. Pleased when his stomach ceased its violent rebellion.

He used a handful of snow to rid his mouth of the vile taste, quickly spitting it out when even the snow did not taste like snow was supposed too. He grimaced, it had tasted...foreign. 

Standing Bear knew he was no longer within his old hunting grounds. He could not hear the meandering river that led to _Black Oak_ settlement, or the hawk-mates that had been screeching from the treetops as he and Thunder Boy talked. He could not hear them or Thunder Boy any longer. The black sky above was clouded, which blotted out the starlight in wide sections and the air smelled strange, noxious almost. It made his nose twitch with distaste. The forest was quiet, and it gave him pause that he could not hear it teaming with life. It should never be so silent, unless a predator was lurking in the pale winter gloom.

The land felt both familiar and strange at the same time. Not like it _was_ , or perhaps not how he was accustomed to it being. The air he drew into his mouth with each breath tastes different, heavy with pollen that made his nose itch. An eerie dissonance had wormed between this earth and him; he felt it most keenly. It was a jarring feeling; like being transported back to the days of his youth. Back when he was tolerated but unwelcome. 

He was not attuned to this land in the ways that he should be, had grown accustomed to as he grew into adulthood, and it laid the seeds of doubt. 

What if the magic had called to the wrong person? Maybe it had not been meant for him at all. He was half _skinwalker_ , half _Cheyenne_. It seemed strange that higher forces would have lower themselves to have such dealing with one such as him.

_No, that is not true,_ he reminded, thinking of the Voices and their gentle kindness. They had not cared about his divided bloodline. These were merely the echoes of White Star’s taunts and he cast them aside. 

The magic had called to him, who better to save this man than someone who had once known him? He had purpose here, save _Walter Longmire_ for love of Spirit Boy who he had once known so well, and held quite dear.

It was disorientating, the feeling of _wrongness_ that filled his senses, and he had no other word for it. It was a harsh slap in the face. A reminder that he was somewhere he did not wholly _belong_. His innate oneness with the earth was shattered; senses buzzing with the strangeness of this land. 

Everything became off-kilter and _wrong_. 

He almost laughed aloud as his tumbling thoughts, for the feeling was not new. He had carried it with him since birth, making it all the easier to set aside his misgivings. He did not need to belong, only to find the man whose life he had come to save. 

The ground, which had been scattered in orange autumn leaves, was now covered in a thick white blanket of snow. This told him the magic had worked. He picked a direction and began moving at a quick loping pace. Drawn to the right path by the invisible threads of magic. He wanted to fold his arms across his bare chest to preserve his body heat but he did not. He leaned forwards into and against the wind.

He found no amusement in the impractical magic that had summoned him as he weathered the harsh winter-winds lashing against his face with a stoic demeanor. Of all the things the white bead had shown, it had not explained that he would be stepping from a blustery autumn to this frigid ice-land of frost and snow stretching far as the eye could see. Yet it had granted him the name of the man he had come to save, _Walter Longmire._ For that he could set aside all else.

_It was a good name for the boy who had once been Wally,_ Standing Bear mused. 

All he had been given was a name and faint directions; he would have to trust his instincts and the magic whose pull he followed like a trail of dust motes that lingered in the air.

************

Standing Bear grumbled under his breath, his moccasins wet and damp with snow. _“Fate"_ he could be heard to mutter with each step, _“honor"_ with the next, and _“stupid”_ as he trudged against the wind. 

“I am not so clever now, huh, Thunder Boy,” he grunted, his words carried off into the dark. “I have walked into a land of ice and snow with nothing but your rifle and clothes intended for brisk weather.”

Thunder Boy, of course, did not answer. 

He was lost to Standing Bear, somewhere in another world, or another time. Standing Bear felt the weight of the rifle jostling his back and was heartened. Physically present or not, he had with him Thunder Boy’s gift and with that it seemed a piece of Thunder Boy had made the trip, too. Damn the strange magic of it all. 

_Destiny is not very practical_ , Standing Bear decided. 

He forced his way through the hard packed snow that dipped to his knees, his bare skin had already begun to shiver.

He had a plan; it was simple. 

Find Walter Longmire and deliver him to safety. Then pray that the magic of the white bead could return him to his _rightful_ place and time.

His teeth chattered. A reminder, he was not without limits, and the fierce coldness was disagreeable to his body. It pricked at his skin in sharp bursts of iciness. It was not yet a problem, but it would soon be, if he did not find something warmer to cloth himself in. 

Standing Bear crested the hill blanketed in snow with sprigs of green popping through. He heard the clean crisp snap of their narrow stems breaking beneath his weight. Farther ahead he spied a well-beaten pathway. 

It did not shift like dirt or gravel, and it pressed hard into his feet through his waterlogged moccasins. He took a second to look at them, quiet displeasure surging through him to see them in such a state of disrepair. 

They had been a gift from his mother.

He shook off the thought, biting down his sigh. He was being silly; there would be more waiting for him on his return.

A small-railed fence that reflected the light of the moon, which was full and bright, bracketed the road. It was painted with white and yellow lines, some straight, some in a long dotted pattern down the middle. There was a large sign by the path. It curved at the top and rounded at the bottom, a white background with black numbering that said only _14_. 

He sighed, gritting his teeth. 

What did that mean? Did it mean 14 _miles_ until town or was 14 the _name_ of the town? He ground his teeth in frustration, he did not know what it meant. It could have been anything from nonsense to a grave warning.

Standing Bear heard something coming, which shook him from his thoughts; he could hear a noise that he had no mode of understanding for, but it was earsplitting and rumbling and moved fast, whistling as it cut through the air. He ducked back down, and hunkered in the surrounding bushes as it passed.

He did not wish to be seen. The vehicle raced past him taking all the light and noise with it. Standing Bear winced, rubbing at his ears distractedly. He was glad that it was gone so fast and returned to his original plan.

No, he did not like this place at all. 

It was loud and odd to him, with things that he did not really understand. The magic only told him what he needed, by its own measure of necessity, and nothing more. He had been told by his elders, _‘some things were meant to remain a mystery.’_

He turned away from the road. At least he knew that it was in use, though by what or whom he could not imagine. He looked up into the night sky, glad that he could still find _the Pleiades_. That it shone to guide his way was a relief. Without that light, he might well have been lost as Thunder Boy feared.

The magic had shown him enough that with _the Pleiades_ above he could find his way, even in the dark. He would head southwest from the road until he found the _Great Medicine Wheel_. Then he would continue until he crossed the great oak scarred by a large bear's claws. There would be four massive rips beginning at six feet and dragging down for two feet. Walter Longmire was being held captive in a rickety old shack below the shadow of the _Big Horn Mountains_.

Help would arrive, when help was needed, he knew, and decided to do something he had not done in a long while. He trusted the spirits to guide his path, to appear should he step off it. Things such as this did not happen without cause. He trusted in the Creator to show him a sign, if a sign were necessary. 

It was slow going at times. He was as relentless as the tough-hided buffalo, he kept Walter fixed in his thoughts, a reminder of a man who was worse off than he. Sloughing through snow and wet rain that plastered his hair to his shoulders, rivulets skating down his back in an icy caress that sent shivers down his spine, he leaned into the winds lash and kept moving forward without pause.

Thank the Creator Thunder Boy had not come; he would have hated every second of this. His lover would have complained so loudly his ears would be sore from listening. He chuckled, his teeth sinking into his lip to still their chatter. Letting himself think of his lover brought him comfort. Thoughts of Thunder Boy brought a warmth that sprung from within, like a thick winter coat and suddenly the cold did not seem so terrible. 

Walter had it far worse, he was injured and alone surrounded only by enemies. There were two men with _Walter Longmire_ , and they were dressed warmly. As he walked and shivered, grumbling about Thunder Boy and strange magic beads Standing Bear arbitrarily decided he would take their garments for himself after he killed them. 

They would be dead, and dead men did not feel the cold. It was the burden of the living to suffer hardships of the flesh.

Besides, he would need them. The cold would not likely _kill_ him, but it did him no favors, and he did not enjoy watching his skin turn blue any more than the next man. As Thunder Boy would have said, he was literally freezing his balls off out here. 

The enemies of Walter Longmire would feel only the edge of his knife as he slit their throat; it would matter little to them if he stole their clothes afterwards.

He did not plan on dying here, far from home. Thunder Boy would be bitterly disappointed and White Star far too happy. Neither option appealed to Standing Bear as he used the stars to navigate.

A coyote and its mate trailed him for half a mile, curious, but when they determined he was too large to be easy prey they moved on. It was the rare animal that saw him and thought, “prey.” Unless it was sickly or rabid, the animals wanted no trouble. He had long since known animals sensed the difference within him. Some feared him unreasonably. Others snarled and only backed down when he snarled back, and then there were some like Thunder Boy’s fine gray pony. It saw the apple in his hand and cared nothing for the blood in his veins. 

The bear, however, concerned him. 

He could sense it hunting for food and warmth. The fact that it was awake when it should have been sleeping which meant it was hungry and angry. A bear awake in winter was always angry, in his experience. It was not close, but he kept a watchful eye on the tree lines. He refused to perish from cold or a bear attack; he had people waiting for him.

He pushed his body to its very limit traveling faster than he had ever done in his life. He had many miles to go before sunrise. 

Time, however, was slipping away like sand through his fingers. 

Standing Bear was sweating and shivering and exhausted when he reached the _Great Medicine Wheel_. He took a knee for a moment, catching his breathing and wiping the sweat from his brow. He felt as if his lungs would burst, each breath a sharp stab in his gut. 

Once he had regulated his breathing and the cold began setting in he stood foraging his path as he allowed the light threads of the magic to draw him in, a deep instinctive knowledge, and the stars above. 

Standing Bear found the bear-marked-tree from his vision and knew he was close to _Walter Longmire's_ position. He stopped, crouching down to inspect the lay of the land and to see what he could hear beyond the winds moaning howl.

An owl, the near-silent _swoop-swoop_ of its wings cutting through the air, the death-squeak of a mouse, caught in its talons, carried off for a late night snack. His own stomach rumbled, a reminder that he had limited nourishment, lack of foresight on his part. He had not thought this out as completely as he let Thunder Boy believe. The owl vanished into the white winter and he exhaled, relieved it did not linger or follow him; _Walter Longmire_ would not die on this night.

As he knelt, he felt eyes on him. It was not a feeling of hunger like with the coyotes, or unease when he sensed the bear. He slowly craned his neck to see the gray watcher that stood on the path twenty yards away. A silver dappled shadow stood out from the gloom, bathed in the light of the full moon. It was a wolf, and it gazed at him with uncanny precision. 

_A spirit guide perhaps,_ he considered when it did not raise its hackles to attack like a wild animal nor wag its tail in greeting as a tamed wolf dog might do. They stared for sixty long seconds of absolute stillness before it threw back its head, a deep haunting howl sounding into the night. It turned its massive head silver tufts catching in the moonlight, its eyes that shone like a midnight sun locking onto him before it sprinted into motion.

_‘Follow me’_ it seemed to be saying, and Standing Bear followed. 

He had trusted the spirits, and here was his guide.

_This man is important,_ he thought, not for the first time. 

It moved fast, much faster than any wolf he had known, taking off like an arrow bounding the woods as silent as a shadow. He kept one eye on the wolf spirit and the other was put toward not cracking his head open on a log or unseen crevice. 

What an ignoble end that would be, after all this trouble.

He was panting open-mouthed and breathless from exertion when his guide came to a crashing halt. It became so motionless that he could barely tell a shadow from the wolf spirit in the dimness. His own momentum took him within petting distance of the creature. He could see its breath fog the mist in small twirls as they both caught their breath. 

When he had recovered himself he looked to the wolf and waited. It looked back, head tilted in a decidedly uncanny manner that sent prickles down the back of his neck. Spirit guide or not this was not an ordinary creature or being. 

It blinked slowly and purposeful before turning its muzzle to the west.

“Ah,” Standing Bear said, with a dawning understanding. “This is as far as you go?” he asked, unsurprised when the wolf grinned. A wide and toothy expression, sharp white fangs gleaming in the moonlight.

“I will accept that as a yes and thank you for your guidance,” he said, nodding his head respectfully dropping his gaze when it looked him in the eyes. 

It was only a fool who became ungrateful or stilted in thanks when beings beyond common knowledge decided to place themselves in his life. He was many things but none of them a fool; and help might be needed again. 

Satisfied with his manner it made a soft huff and nodded back. The silver-coated wolf spirit faded into the pale gloom and shadows, as silent and sudden as it had appeared, and was gone.

“West it is, then,” Standing Bear muttered as he began making his way along the edge of a frozen creek. He lightly touched the white bead, curious, and yanked his hand back as though stung when he saw something new.

************

He was tired, so damn tired. And cold, why did he end up in situations like this when Absaroka was buried in beautiful, freezing, white snow? 

Dumb luck, he supposed, really shitty, dumb luck. 

He grimaced, the stinging pulse of his gunshot wound making itself known. Loudly. It was a dull throbbing ache, relentless as a junk-yard dog with a bone, digging in deep enough that his whole leg was in dull agony. 

He had a .36 mm lodged inside and it didn’t tickle. 

“Don’t sleep, don’t sleep, or you don’t wake,” he muttered, again and again, knowing that if he closed his eyes did he might not live to open them. 

He’d always figured in a hail of bullets with his boots on. Just not like this. Not so soon, his little punk’in was only 5 years old. Cady already had him wrapped around her tiny finger, just like her mother. He wasn’t ready. 

No one knew he was out here, that was the hell of it. Him and his dumb ass had gotten beated and shot off the clock. Sheriff Lucien wouldn't know shit until he didn’t show for work, he’d be a frozen corpse by then. He was up shit creek without a paddle this time. Out here Lucien was 911, and he didn’t even have a phone. Neither did Walt, for that matter. 

No one was coming.

Jeb fucking Perkins had nailed him good this time. He hadn’t even had to plan out some convoluted scheme to do it. Dumb luck had been on the wanted felons side tonight, dammit. He hadn’t got an artery or he’d be dead, but it wasn’t looking good. What he didn’t know was why Perkins hadn’t put a bullet between his eyes when he’d had the chance, what was the point of these shenanigans? Dragging him to this tiny shackle, tied, and shot. Was he planning to freeze him to death? Leave his body for the carrion and beasts? Maybe, it wasn’t the worst idea, not the best either, and one he surely wasn’t on board with.

He definitely hadn’t planned on dying tonight.

He chuckled, amused at his own gallows humor. Yeah, sorry Death, can I pencil you in next week? Yeah, that’s swell. Mm, that might be the shock and bloodless getting to him he imagined, as he flopped down on his back. Wriggling wasn’t doing him any favors, it would burst the clots that kept him from careening into death's lap good and proper. Flopping like a fish ont he deck wasn’t going to get him anywhere, not with goon squad Dumb and Dumber guarding the only exit.

He had just wanted to go home and kiss Martha, but he’d stopped to pick up some chewable Vicks tablets to help with her flu, maybe a few donuts. Damned if the wanted felon hadn’t chosen the same convenience store for condoms and snickers. Perkins had had a different plan for tonight, too. But here he was, bleeding just shy of too much with his body temperature dropping dangerously in wet clothes. They were tacky, bloody, and wet, a terrible threesome that had him chafing and itching and hurting.

The more he tried to wriggle from the bindings the more lines of red smeared the dirty floor, he’d need a tetanus shot too.

“Sorry Martha,” he thought, knowing she’d be okay. In time, just like all the old sappy songs said.

Time was the great healer. 

They’d be okay -- he knew that. 

Martha was stronger than he was, she’d raise Cady and they’d be fine. But _he_ wasn’t fine with missing all those firsts, all those years they had planned on. 

His plans had been all shot to hell, literally, and _no one_ was coming.

************

That was the man he had come here to save: _Walter Longmire_. 

Standing Bear felt his regrets as though they were the stones weighing his own heart. He felt his pain, too. He shook off the phantom aching, his body was whole and though he ached from his travels it was not worth notice. He was well, it was his friend who lingered too close to death for comfort. The other man was bleeding, freezing, and wishing he were home with his wife and his baby girl with eyes just like Walter and hair bright as a little red fox. 

The last thoughts of any good man with a woman he loved waiting. 

Standing Bear’s own heart panged with sympathy -- he also knew the comfort of a strong love and would see Walter returned to his own. 

Standing Bear pushed himself hard without stopping for rest. He forced his aching muscles, which would not thank him for this in the morning, to greater lengths. He could be fast, he knew. In the past he had held back, just a little but here there was none to see. It was not an easy run. The moon hung high in the black sky, full and bright as could be, which helped as did his keen vision that was not fully distorted by the night.

He had asked Thunder Boy once, having no way to tell if they changed in some manner after day but his friend.

“I see nothing wrong,” was all he would say, before distracting him with things besides talk. It had not escaped his notice that Thunder Boy had not answered outright, so he was left to wonder.

Still, it was hard terrain to cover with speed; snow was thick in some areas and slippery with ice in others. He used the thin deer trails and cut in the direction he was being directed towards, forcing his way through prickly thickets and dense forestry, scratching up his hands and face on branches and rocks. Faint red lines scratched down his cheeks and the wind stung his eyes but he did not relent.

West, the silver spirit wolf had said, so he kept west, by the light of _Pleiades_.

Standing Bear could still feel the echo of the other man's emotions rattling within his own heart. He recalled the sad image, his tall strong body dumped in the middle of the shack, trussed up like a pig at fair, entirely helpless. 

He knew what it was to be defenseless, someone else controlling whether he lived or died. Someone who wanted nothing more than to watch as the light went out from his eyes. 

His strong desire to get home to his woman spoke to Standing Bear. They were not so different Walter Longmire and he. Even with all the years between, in the end they desired the same thing, to go home to their heart’s song.

Standing Bear pushed himself to greater speeds, which he had not thought possible. He slowly began to realize how fast he was moving, how east his breathing became once his body became used to maintaining this pace, which could likely match a white-tailed deer or the swiftest wolf. 

It was as if the world was still, and he was the only one moving.

The wind whipped at his hair as much from the weather as his own inhuman speeds. 

A strange feeling washed over him, amidst the ache of his thigh muscles and the almost-unbearable cold that pricked at his skin, and his mouth quirked in a tiny grin as he fought against the onslaught of winter.

_Exhilaration, yes that is what this feeling within is,_ Standing Bear mused, his eyes finally lighting on the shack.

He had been named protector with the name Standing Bear at the tender age of fourteen winters by the Voices; finally the Creator had given him an opportunity to prove himself with actions. 

Finally, finally, he saw something in the distance, a rickety old shack, barely worthy of the name, sat on a low hill below the shadow of a mountain. 

He had found him.

_Walter Longmire._

He circled the shack, silent as the wolf who had led him to this place. He trusted in the magic but checked with his own eyes that there were only two men guarding the shack. One man or more than he had accounted for could tip this from a rescue to a burial. 

He would not have this man's death on his conscience. 

Keeping to the shadows he crept through the brush and the copse of trees that surrounded the shack on all sides. It was the perfect place to hold a man, but the worst place to keep watch for oncoming enemies. And they did not even know about him.

Standing Bear ascertained that he had the advantage. He chose a secluded spot ten yards from the entrance where he could see both men. He cupped his hands around his mouth, making a shrill call, a coyote wailing and a woman screaming. 

The men were at attention and shoving each other, each man saying to the other, _‘Hell no, I ain’t going to see what that was – you do it!’_ and back and forth until, finally, Slim with the heavy green jacket stumbled into the tree-line.

He had done this enough times before to know it would work. 

Curiosity, so often did it lead to a grisly death. 

The man he called Slim shoved branches out of his face. Standing Bear could hear his slow and cautious steps, how his feet slipped, sinking him in the snow. But he kept coming, pushing deeper and deeper within the woods. 

Slim was headed straight to him.

And he was waiting, with grim satisfaction and a ready knife. 

Blood spurted through the air, stained the white snow. His hands clamped over Slim's mouth to silence his death-cry as he bled out in a matter of seconds. A red smile gaping skyward when Standing Bear released his corpse.

Now that there was only one remaining enemy he approached from the rear of the shack, with his back pressed flush to the wood as he edged closer. It was only when he could hear Paunch breathing, nervous inhales and breathy exhales, and smell the stink of fear rolling off of him, that he attacked. 

Standing Bear flung himself onto the man, crashing them both into the ground kicking up snow as they grappled and flailed for control. Paunch had more fight than Slim; he warded off the first attack, knocking him in the ribs. Undaunted Standing Bear rolled to his feet, dodged the first wild swing of Paunches meaty fist, and took a hit to get closer between the man’s swinging fists, he slashed diagonally with his knife hard and deep. 

Paunch went down screaming, his guts spilling out from his body, the hot blood steaming as it made contact with the once-white snow.

It would have taken him many minutes to die. 

The last thing Paunch saw was his shadow and the cold glint of his knife as he delivered the killing blow. He cut his throat, a clean serving that granted him the mercy of a quick death. 

A fast jerk of his blade through soft flesh and tissue and it was done. 

It was the same as he would have done for a deer or moose felled by arrows but not yet dead. He could not do less for this man than he would a suffering animal. He did not seek unnecessary torment, not for man or for beast.

Standing Bear grimaced at the sight of the bloody corpse; he had clearly not thought this through. The jacket was thoroughly ruined. His excitement at finding the shack had moved him to action without thought.

Perhaps he _should_ have shot them, unsporting as it would have been to pick them off like deer herded into a narrow canyon.

Either way, this night was not fated to end well for them, not when the man they held captive was his friend. 

Thunder Boy would have just shot them, he suspected. 

He wondered if Slim’s clothes had fared better. Likely not, a slit throat was messy. Shivering in the snow Standing Bear knelt by the corpse and stripped Paunch of his clothes, item by item before retreating to the tree line and doing the fame to his fellow.

He and Walter Longmire would eventually need dry clothes, even if they were bloody.

Holding the stolen clothes from his enemies corpses, Standing Bear shoved his way through the shacks door, dumping them on the dry floor, and hurried to the unconscious man lying on the ground, severing his ties at hands and feet with the still bloody knife. 

Propping his rifle against the wall Standing Bear cast his eyes about the room and its sparse contents: a spindly chair, a small table, a cracked window, and nothing else. This left little to work with, but it would do well as kindling. First things first, though.

He inspected the mans’ wound or what parts of it he could see, his mouth drawn tight with concern. It was bleeding sluggishly and the ground below Walter was wet and tacky. He used the soiled undershirt taken from Slim to clean his knife before he set it to the seam of Walters pant leg and cleaved the blood crusted fabric in two so he could better see the wound. 

He peeled back the clothing and was glad to see the wound had not become infected; it did not stink or ooze pustules. He was no Medicine Man but he knew that it should be cleaned of debris and blood; he hurried back out and cupped the snow in his hands, for he had no bowl, and brought it back inside. 

He tore free a section of Slim’s shirt and set to work cleaning the wound.

Walter groaned and thrashed under his ministrations, but remained fully unconscious. 

_The wound was not a clean through and through,_ Standing Bear noted.

The bullet was still within Walters' leg. The best thing to do was to leave it be, wrap the wound, and have a proper doctor examine the wound. It had cut through flesh on the outsider of Walter’s lower thigh, three inches above the knee. It could have been much, much worse.

Periodically Standing Bear placed his hand over Walters’ mouth to check that his breathing remained regular and propped his neck with Paunches sweater. Having cleaned the wound he wrapped it tightly using the cloth on hand, the blood had already begun to clot. This was a good sign. It was Walters’s inability to wake that concerned him more than the wound by this point. Before anything else could be attempted he needed to get a fire going or they would both freeze. 

Walter’s body was extremely cold to the touch. Far too cold for a human body to be and remain among the living.

“Stay with me, Walter Longmire, you are not allowed to die” Standing Bear ordered, violently cracking half the furniture in the room, piling the broken pieces in the center. 

It would do well for kindling, and he had on him a flint to cast the flame.

The practical thing to do now was strip themselves of their own wet clothes. Unashamed of his own nakedness, Standing Bear efficiently stripped down to skin, crouching beside the large bag Slim had carried and stuffing his old clothes within, pulling on the stolen clothes. The pants fit, the shirt was a lost cause, but the heavy green jacket would do.

He knelt down to take care of Walter and with careful tenderness peeled the man out of his clothes. It crossed his mind that he’d end the night with a black eye if Walter chose to wake now; half naked and vulnerable with an Indian kneeling over his body.

Standing Bear knew he wouldn’t have minded terribly, if it meant he got to see his eyes once more. It would relieve the pit of dread that only grew the longer he remained limp and unconscious. He sometimes wondered if his eyes really were as vividly blue as he remembered. 

Walter never woke, and Standing Bear’s concern grew a slow, crawling apprehension that itched below his skin. He did not let it stop him from doing what needed to be done. He eased the wet pants down Walters hips, cutting the sections that stuck and caught against skin, and threw the useless cloth towards the fire, which was growing casting flickering shadows against the wall. 

Standing Bear carefully slid Paunches pants onto Walter, relieved that the man had more girth at the thigh and waist than Walter, this extra size kept the cloth from jarring the wound but provided decency and warmth. He was breathing without wheezing or short-breaths, and his heartbeat was regular, steady as a beating drum, strong, too. But he was not waking. Standing Bear laid down beside him, pressing close so that the man might leech what warmth he could from the closeness of their bodies.

The mournful howl of the wind that slammed against the thin walls reminded Standing Bear that staying here for a spell, getting warmth into Walt’s chilled extremities was the best option for now. He found the cold an unbearable annoyance but it could be more serious for a fully human man in a weakened state.

The cinders grew fast, insulted within the shack from the wind and the rain, an uncontrollable inferno that crackled with life as the cold was exiled; heat, warm, and welcome heat permeating the room. Slowly, Walter became less chilled to the touch, his face taking a warm, pink flush, and he mumbled incoherently.

“Mr-tha,” Walt kept repeating, mindlessly curling towards the warmth of the fire and Standing Bear exhaled, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him from tumbling into the flames.

“Shh, all will be well, Walter Longmire” Standing Bear soothed, holding on tighter as Walter moved, inching towards the fire. “I will get you home, somehow, I promise you this one thing.”

Walter groaned, flopping into his back, his eyes half-lidded.

“Ah, there you are,” Standing Bear said, relieved to see the sliver of blue, the hint of clarity in Walter’s eyes. "Stay with me, blue eyes,” he whispered into the dim orange light of the room, using the nickname of boyhood, gently cupping Walter's jaw, and feeling the bristles on his jaw.

“Ho-na-nist-to,” Walter grunted out, and Standing Bear almost fell back as though shoved, so great was his shock. He had gotten the pronunciation wrong, but then, he had as a child, too. Most white people did. 

His name, Walter had remembered it. 

“Is that --" Walter cut off, his hand reaching out, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

A tiny smile bloomed on Standing Bear's face. His face softened his eyes over-bright in the orange firelight, reflecting the warmth of the flames. It was a pleasant feeling, hearing Walter call him by his name of old. 

“It is I,” Standing Bear replied, taking the extended hand between his own. “Hello again, old friend."

“Not real -- said...not real,” Walter muttered, nonsensical and only half aware of what spilled from his mouth. 

Standing Bear clasped his wandering hand tight between his own. “ _I_ am real. I am flesh and blood, as you are flesh and blood, Walter Longmire.”

“Hallucinating. Not here. Not here,” Walter mumbled, even as his fingers held tight to his own, warm and strong, even as they trembled with the chill of winter.

“Real or not real -- I will not let you die,” Standing Bear vowed, his voice becoming thick with emotion. “You will live.”

“Huh,” Walter muttered, and his head fell back, his eyes sliding shut.

“Walter?" Standing Bear called out, panic rising when the man refused to wake. “You will not die,” Standing Bear grit out, glaring around the room as if the specter of Death were present that very moment, hiding in some corner or crevice. 

He watched Walter, still deeply unconscious. A hard knot constructed his throat, making it hard to breathe. Walter was not waking, this was not good. He was strapped for choices: to stay or to go? It was a long-shot whichever path he chose. 

He stretched out beside Walter on the ground, lending his own body heat to the wounded man. They could not stay here much longer, and yet from here he did not know the way. 

Grunting in frustration, Standing Bear hit the floor with his closed fist. He had salvaged the wound, staved off the bitter cold, but it was not enough. He needed to get Walter back to his own people; they must have a doctor in the town.

He was lost, the vision had guided him here, but he knew nothing else.

“I am lost, if you are near Silver One, I need a guide,” Standing Bear said, praying that the being that had appeared once might appear to him again. 

He folded his arms across his chest, head bowed. 

“I do not know the way.”

He waited, listening hard for any sign, and when it came it was so faint he could barely hear.

A wolf howled, somewhere in the distance, and he took heart. Help would come, when help was most needed. He looked over at Walter and knew that traveling would be hard and painful if he carried him over his shoulder.

_A rig, that is what I need,_ Standing Bear mused, looking around the room. 

Everything here had been cast to the fire; the last bulwark against the cold. He pulled his sturdy jacket closer together at the front and shouldered his way back into the storm. By luck or by design he found saplings perfect for the creation of a rig and the last craps of Slims shirt would be used to bind the pieces together.

Standing Bear hastily doused the fire and loaded Walter onto the rig, the man never stirred and he decided it was for the best. The journey would not be kind on his wound, no matter how careful he tried, the trail was rocky and the road long. By the time he was prepared to set out, the bag with his old clothes slung over his shoulder and his rifle at his back the silver-coated spirit wolf had made itself known. 

It stepped out of the pale gloom to show the way.

“Lead on, Silver One” Standing Bear said, as it paused, waiting for his word. Once he had spoken it began walking, slower and more measured than the earlier mad dash through the forest.

His muscles burned, sweat beading on his brow, but he was glad for the jacket and sturdy shoes that kept his feet warm. 

It was a good jacket, even if it was dotted with Slims blood at the collar. 

The three travelers passed the _Great Medicine Wheel_ as the full moon began lowering behind the distant horizon, and later the tree with the bear-claw marks, the bear that lumbered in the dark roared and the silver wolf howled back, and it fell silent.

_Not a wolf – not just a wolf,_ Standing Bear acknowledged. 

The twilight gray of a new day touched the forest when the beaten roadways from earlier in the night came into view. The silver wolf came to a halt as his side met his gaze for a long unblinking moment before loping off into the enfolding darkness of the forest.

“To the road it will be,” Standing Bear mumbled. The wolf had not led him astray before, and it would not do so now. “We are almost there, Walter Longmire,” he said over his shoulder, Walter said nothing.

He picked up on the loud, earsplitting racket from earlier in the night and he hurriedly dragged the rig up to the roadway, dropping Walter and his rig on the side as he placed himself in the middle, standing atop the white lines that split the pathway into two. He waved his hands in the air to make certain he was seen, praying that they, whoever they were, would stop.

Amid screeching, honking, and foul – _human_ – swearing the oncoming contraption was halted. It was such a near thing that there was little more than a stones throw between the metallic device and his body. Standing Bear flicked it no more than glance, instead turning his eyes upon the man who had climbed out. A tall, rangy man, with a dark beard trimming his jaw and dusting his chin.

He smelled faintly of alcohol and women's perfume.

“You got a death wish or something? Shit, I coulda killed you!” the man growled, approaching with rapid strides.

“Coulda screwed my brakes all to hell with that stunt, too.”

“I need help,” Standing Bear cut in, gesturing toward the injured man beside the roadway. Well aware that he was reliant on the mans’ goodwill, possessing nothing to barter with except the rifle on his back. 

The man didn’t even pause to look in the direction he had indicated. Choosing to stalk forward, bristling like a cornered wolf, its fur a ridged line of spikes. The man had gotten in close, _too close_ for his liking, getting into his face, his steel-gray eyes narrowed and hard as winter ice. 

“Help? Yes, you surely do, for doing such a stupid…is that – blood?” the man asked, cutting off abruptly.

“Yes, but not mine,” Standing Bear said, forcing himself to remain calm. The muscles along his jaw seized. It took much restraint on his part to keep from demanding assistance. “I need help for my friend, not myself.”

If he knew how to make the contraption move he would have been more direct in his actions. Walter's life rested in this man being willing to help, each seconds delay was one to many. 

He once again gestured towards Walter and the rig, but this time the man noticed.

The man blinked, his face paling. “Walt? Shit, shit shit,” the man muttered, hurrying to Walters’ side, checking his pulse.

“He lives,” Standing Bear assured him, unsurprised when his words were ignored.

They did not know each other after all.

The steel-eyed man was tensed up, the lines around his eyes crinkling hard as he hovered over Walter, checking his pulse, the warmth of his skin, and prying open his closed eyes. 

“Yeah, he’s alive, but he needs a hospital, help me load him up,” the man said, undoing the belt and various tied binding Walter to the rig. “You hauled him quite a ways,” he said, and it wasn’t a question so Standing Bear did not deny it.

“Yes,” he said, holding Walter up from the left side, while the new man was holding him up from the right. Between the two of them Walter was lifted into the contraption, a strap pulled across his chest to tether him in place.

“He needs a proper doctor to give him a look over,” the man grunted.

Standing Bear nodded, “yes, you are right. I cleaned the wound but I am no Medicine Man.”

The man grunted, already running around to the other far side of the contraption with the open door. Standing Bear did not wait for an invite. He was unwilling to part ways with Walter until he knew he would wake. He slid into the space between Walters’s side and the door.

The man said nothing about his second passenger, perhaps he had assumed Standing Bear would be joining them, as he slammed his door and twisted a key. The contraption rumbled back to life and Standing Bear held onto the door as it lurched forward, whipping down the roads and rounding corners faster than he had expected. He white knuckled the door; his mouth compressed into a thin white line as he forcibly calmed his breath.

This man cared about Walter; for them this must be normal and safe travel. When then man began speaking it was both a welcome distraction and a concern when he very much wanted the man to keep his attention, and his eyes, fixed on the road. His stomach became unsettled and he pressed his mouth tightly shut, breathing deep through his nose. He refused to show weakness, not here with this strange man in this strange...contraption.

“Alright, so tell me what the hell happened out there?” the man asked, “oh, uh, introductions, right. I’m Omar, welcome to Absaroka,” he grunted. 

“Now, explain.”

Standing Bear thought about his answer, he knew the man was getting frustrated but it had been a long, confusing night. It took him a moment to order his thoughts. 

He decided that time travel and magic didn’t need to be part of this conversation. 

“I am Standing Bear,” he said, watching the other man as he spoke for clues and told him that he was speaking wrong. 

When the other man just nodded him along, impatient, he continued. 

“I heard gunfire, I investigated and found two men holding Walt captive, tied and shot.”

Standing Bear watched as Omar’s face shifted, a tell, when he used the same abbreviated name he had, _‘Walt,’_ for Walter Longmire. He _was_ a friend and this man called Omar did not need to know they had not spoken since they were boys.

“He’s got more lives than a cat,” Omar muttered, the tension already easing from his shoulders. “I swear, I’m going to kill him myself when he wakes.”

Standing Bear nodded, even if he did not grasp his meaning. Omar believed him, it was enough to be starting with. 

“Oh, uh, those two men? Should I tell the sheriff to send a rescue or a body bag?” Omar asked, flicking him a curious look.

“They are no longer counted among the living,” Standing Bear replied, he did not understand what the _‘body bag’_ was meant to entail but if it was the opposite to a _‘rescue’_ then he did not imagine they would be alive. 

He shrugged.

“I am only one, I could not capture them _and_ save Walter.”

Omar snorted, “Right…good choice by the way, do you know who it was that got him? Was it the Laramie brothers? The Rykers Gang?”

Standing Bear shook his head. “I know nothing about Laramies or Rykers.”

“Well, you’re not missing out on anything there, just some scumbags that Walt's got into it with in the past,” Omar explained. “I swear, barely one year on the job and this happens? Talk about shit luck.”

“One might argue he was a watchful guardian -- he could easily have died below the shadow of the mountain,” Standing Bear contested, his face bland at the snow-capped mountains. If Walter was not so lucky he would be _dead_. 

Omar grunted, unwilling to give up his position. 

“It’s a damn fine distinction to be making.”

“He has many enemies, then?” Standing Bear asked instead of pursuing an argument about how magic dragged him across time to be here so he would be in the right place at the right time. 

He had decided Omar did not need to know about the magic and he had not seen anything to alter his decision. Still, genuine curiosity furrowing brows, as he wondered what kind of life Walter had made for himself in his own time.

The man at the wheel hummed, nodding, but thankfully kept his eyes on the road and not on him. His gaze did flick towards Standing Bear here and there, making his heart leap in his chest, a wild panicked flutter. 

“Do birds fly?”

“I see.”

“Standing Bear, huh, kinda like _Beyoncé_ , huh?” the man called Omar said, mocking and a little abrasive in manner. He had sussed out that Beyoncé was a name he _should_ know, a name known to the people of this region and place, but he did not in fact know this person. 

He was not _of_ this time.

He kept his answer purposefully oblique. 

“That is my name.”

It was not even a lie.

Standing Bear turned, always keeping half his attention on Walter.

He made sure the man still breathed regularly and deeply. It was a good distraction from the scenery whipping by when he dared to look out the window. And it quieted the uneasy rustling of his own heart that was even now being called back home. Man had died from wounds such as this, he knew, there would be no returning until Walter Longmire had finally woken, gazing at the world through his blue, blue eyes once more.

Then, and only then could he leave his side.

The contraption hit a bump, swerving a little and a startled gasp clawed its way from his throat, his face burned but he kept his eyes fixed on Walter, on the door handle he clutched with a fiercely tight grip. So tight that his muscles cramped and complained; he ignored it and held firm.

He thought he had hid it, but he would find out, he had not. 

Omar chuckled. 

“Don’t like trucks much, huh? That why you were hoofin’ it out there in snow boots at the ass crack of nowhere?” 

Standing Bear licked his lips, nervous that this man had picked up on so much already. At least he had a name for the contraption he was riding in, trucks. 

“I suppose not,” he replied, keeping his eye fixed on Walter and the rise and fall of his chest. 

Outside his square shaped window the mountainous landscape finally gave way to a town, house after house lit by the pale light of morning. Relief crashed into him, hard and fast. Town meant hospitals and doctors and medicine to help Walter.

“Here we go,” Omar muttered, pulling into a large building, unsnapping his buckle and throwing open his door. Standing Bear mimicked his actions, helping to remove Walter from his place in between them.

Soon as they entered, the strong scent of medicine hit him in the face. It was powerfully strong, and a bit disgusting. Sharply pungent. Almost enough to knock him back a step. He pressed on, breathing through his mouth until the shock lessened. 

Omar shouted loud and commanding for help and help was given, people in white coats rushed to meet them. They took Walter from their hands and set him on a large framed rig with wheels. Standing Bear watched his body disappear around a corner. 

Alone with Omar in a long white hallway surrounded by people coughing and pacing or sitting in chairs that lined the rooms he suddenly felt very out of place and unsure. 

His task was complete. 

Walter Longmire was safe. 

Now what?

He observed the man with him. Omar didn’t look so tense now that the people in white coats were looking after his friend. Standing Bear had no choice but to assume he knew best in this situation and that they would return when there was something to be shared. 

“Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee. You look like shit, chief,” Omar said, slapping him on the arm. 

He grimaced, frowning hard at the man. “I am not a chief, just Standing Bear, no chief,” he explained as though speaking to a particularly slow and mentally addled person. 

“Loosen up, just an expression, man,” Omar laughed.

He shook his head, but let the matter drop. It was not worth arguing, and he was admittedly reluctant to alienate his only ally in this strange place where he knew no one and next to nothing about the expected customs. He kept waiting for someone to notice his skin was not the color of the many, many people in the hallways and have him throw out.

It never happened. The white people, when they did stop to notice him with lingering glances, were only staring at the blood on his clothes. He supposed that was better than taking a dislike to the color of his _face_.

“I have no money,” Standing Bear finally said, realizing he had not answered Omar, taken in by his surroundings, the metallic taste that lingered in the air. The strong scent that made his head throb and pulse with discomfort.

A white woman approached him nervous and agitated, her steps light, a deer dancing around a lazy coyote that had stopped in its meadow. Her heart rate was fast, and her pupils dilated, indicating unease. What was there for _her_ to fear in this place of healing surrounded by her own people? Was she afraid of him, perhaps, or something else?

“Sir? Um, sir? You can’t have that in here?” she said, motioning toward his rifle.

He frowned. “It is mine, it was a gift,” he said, having no choice but to assume that she meant he should not have the rifle on _his_ person. “I did not steal it.”

“No, no, I mean ---”

“Oh give it a rest honey, this man just dragged Deputy Longmire’s ass through hell-knows-how-many-miles to get him some help. Leave the man and his rifle be, honey.”

“Wait? Walter?” the white woman asked, her eyes widening. “What happened? Is he alright?” she asked, her face becoming ashen in the harsh yellow lighting.

“Yeah, you know Walt. Too damn stubborn to die.”

“Oh. Good, good.”

“This man’s a hero, so how about we just let him keep his stuff. He’s not going to shoot the place up, I promise. He’s Walt’s friend.”

“Walt’s friend?” the white woman repeated, and her entire expression shifted. As if by proxy Standing Bear was reliable. Because he was _Walt’s_ friend. 

And now neither his _race_ nor his _rifle_ were a cause for concern. He was not totally comfortable with this about-face, but he accepted it. It let him keep Thunder Boy’s gift on his person, so he let his surge of displeasure wash over him like he had so many other things in his life, and cast it out. 

There were more important matters at hand.

“Yeah, okay, sorry Mr…?”

“Standing Bear,” Omar supplied when he didn’t answer fast enough.

“Mr. Standing Bear,” the white woman said, smiling brightly. “We owe you one, Walt’s a good man, I can’t imagine if anything had happened to him.”

“A loss of a good man is always bad,” Standing Bear offered, uncomfortable with the looks the white woman was giving him, wide and almost adoring in nature. 

Her small delicate hand resting on his forearm, the whiteness of her skin a stark contrast to the red blood crusted only inches above her hand, as she leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek before he could protest. 

He went stock-still, barely resisting the urge to rip free from her grasp and her forward intimacy.

Not his time, not his people. Maybe this was usual.

Something about the way Omar was smirking at him said that was so.

The white woman with chestnut colored hair and freckles dotting the bridge of her nose released him and swept back behind the desk with the other men and women wearing similar outfits. 

The clothes of healers, white and blue and pink. 

Standing Bear watched her go, blinking back his shock at her forwardness. He resisted the urge to wipe his face, he was not a child, and it had not been unpleasant. Though, it had been some time since a woman's touch had lingered on his bare skin.

“Women, right?" Omar said, jostling him in the ribs. “Right, shit, speaking of. I better call Martha.”

Standing Bear jerked to attention at the name, it was very much like the one Walter had been repeating before losing consciousness. 

_Martha_ , Walter Longmire’s woman. Good, once he had delivered Walter to her he could pass over responsibility and know the man would be well tended to in his absence. Then he could return home with an easy conscience. 

His own heart waited _somewhere and somewhere_ in time. 

Omar had stepped away and was talking into a large yellowish brick-like device connected by a tightly coiled cord to the wooden counter that a woman was seated behind. The cord itself was no longer than the length of a small brown snake, allowing the man to lift it to his ear as he tapped at it, each tap followed by an oddly pitched noise followed by another sound he had no reference for. 

The _burr-burr_ sound of it all was a bit like a Starling, now that he considered it. They were the odd mimics of the wild. Much like him in a way, he too could sound frighteningly akin to the animals he had heard and seen growing up on the plains: coyote, fox, and cougars.

They were such ordinary little things, but capable of amazing mimicry.

The sound went on for a while, but then there was a click and a woman's voice.

“Hello?” she said.

“Martha, it’s Omar. I got some new for you…”

It did not surprise him that Walter’s woman became immediately concerned after that forbidding opening line. 

“Somethings wrong, isn’t it? That’s why you're calling.”

She was a smart woman. 

“I thought he was working late with Sheriff Lucien,” the woman, Martha, said. “But...I should have known, dammit, I should have.”

“Martha stop that, okay. There was no way or knowing, take a breath and calm down. He’ll be fine, stubborn as a mule that one.”

Omar did most of the talking after that, his voice soft and gentle in a way Standing Bear would have never guessed it could be assuring Martha that Walter was going to be fine. He found himself listening in, unable to help himself really. 

He found her voice was unexpectedly pleasing; there was a gentle cadence to it that sounded both sweet and mature, smooth like still waters.

“We’re at the hospital but it’s okay, he’s _okay_. You can meet us here, or I can get someone to drive you? No? You sure honey? Okay, take it easy on those roads Martha. Walt will be here when you arrive.”

“Martha will be here in an hour or so,” Omar said, setting down the brick-like talking device turning back to face him. Omar was completely oblivious that he had heard every word spoken between them for all that he was across the hall.

“Coffee, right, don’t worry about money. You saved Walter Longmire's life, drinks will be on me tonight. Hell, tomorrow too if you want to stop in at _the_ _Red Pony_ before going back to wherever you came from.”

“ _The_ _Red Pony_?” Standing Bear asked.

“Yeah, it’s not much but the beer is cold. Jonas and Ada Black Kettle run the place. Don’t tell me you’ve never been? Shit, how long have you been holed up in the mountains, chief?” Omar chided. 

“Tomorrow, _the Red Pony_ , drinks are on me. Hell, make it lunch, too.”

Standing Bear shrugged, he neither confirmed nor denied Omar's plans, letting him make the gesture what he wished. In either case, he would not be here to see the sun set and rise again. The call of home was loud in his ears, tugging at his heart.

But he would not leave, not yet.

Omar motioned for him to follow and he did, his stomachs low rumble reminding him that he was in fact hungry and he had traveled many hours without food or water. It was good that Omar had offered to provide for them both. Standing Bear was loath to part with the only thing of value that he owned, Thunder Boy’s rifle, which was to him a solid reminder that grounded him to his own time.

Coffee came with food and he was glad to see it, even better to find that it at least did not taste as _strange and wrong_ as everything else that had been bombarding his senses all night. It was food, it would quiet the gnawing hunger of his belly, and for that he thanked the man who had seen to his provisions from his own means.

“A steak man, too, eh?” Omar noted when he ordered the exact same meal as he had. Standing Bear did not explain that he wanted to keep things as simple as possible, and _‘same as him,’_ was as straightforward as he could make his request. 

“Yes,” he replied, and this too was not a lie.

“You really don’t talk a whole hell of a lot, do you?” Omar teased. “Hell, I expect you and Walt must be two peas in a pod. What’s the use of talking when you can just stare into the silence saying nothing at all.”

Standing Bear laughed, he could not help it, it burst from him quite against this will. Omar was not the first man to complain that he did not speak _often_ enough. 

“I am sorry, you reminded me of a friend, that is all,” he said by way of answer, running a tired hand over his face.

It trembled a little, giving away his still _mostly_ -human weakness. He had gone too long without food, on an empty stomach, pushing himself harder than ever before. He was not without limits.

“Must be a pretty good friend, to get a smile out of you, chief,” Omar said, and this time Standing Bear did not get angry over the mis-label. 

He was not comfortable with it, but could recognize that Omar meant no harm by it. 

_All Indians are probably ‘chief’ to him._

“Omar, two steak burgers, side of fries and black coffee!” the cook called out and Omar hopped from his seat.

Standing Bear remained where he was, it was one tray, Omar had already risen. There would be no point to follow at his heel like a lost stray dog.

“Bon appetit!” Omar exclaimed, shoving his portion of the food to his side of the table. 

Standing Bear had no idea what that meant and he did not care. There was food before him, and it smelled _good_. He practiced good manners and slowly set to devouring his food, though it took much effort not to wolf it down in a rush. 

His mouth watered at the scent of cooked and well-seasoned meat. 

They ate in silence until everything was gone from the table.

“Come on, let's get back to the waiting room. We should be getting the word from the doc about Walt,” Omar said, taking the tray the food had been delivered on and setting it over a large can with a whole inside where various rubbish and papers could be seen, and _smelled_ of old rotten food.

Standing Bear wrinkled his nose and moved on, following Omar back the way they had come, three rights, a left, and right, to the _‘waiting room’_ where the doctor would soon tell them how Walter had fared under their care.

Omar was right, soon after their return a woman in a long white coat came out to greet them. “For Walter Longmire?” she asked, looking around.

He and Omar stepped forward. 

“I’m Doctor Wallace. Are you family?” she asked.

“Closest he’s got here right now,” Omar replied, “he’s not going to lose the leg or something?” he asked, and Standing Bear could hear the concern. It made his voice gruff and and gravely, a low rasp, unlike his lighter banter from earlier.

“No! Nothing like that, he’s doing quite well actually, the wound was kept clean and we were able to successfully remove the bullet. A little rest and recovery is all Mr. Longmire needs. He could wake any time now.”

“Thank God for that, he’d have a hell of a time as a one-legged deputy,” Omar grinned, playing off his earlier show of concern. “Serve him right, giving me and Martha such a scare.”

Doctor Wallace, familiar with his chosen brand of deflection smiled gently. “I don’t want to crowd him, should he wake. Only one visitor at a time Mr…?”

“Rhodes, Omar Rhodes,” Omar said, “and I like my martinis shaken, not stirred.”

The woman laughed, patting his arm as she led him to the room they were keeping Walter in for his recovery. Standing Bear, left to wait, sighed. He felt very wrong-footed and slow-witted in this place. Try as he might he had little idea what Omar meant by his words or why the striking woman doctor found it so _amusing_.

He took a seat, squished between a young black man and a blond white woman who was folded over in her seat clutching her very round and pregnant belly. A woman in pale blue clothes came and helped her into a back room first, and he was relieved to see it. He spared a second to wonder where the pregnant woman's husband was before he reminded himself it was not his concern. 

The black man was seen later.

Standing Bear folded his arms across his chest as he slowly felt the seconds tick by; with each one a stone's weight was added to his chest. 

He did not _belong_ here.

There was nothing for him to do but wait. Walter would be fine, Omar would not be teasing if he did not believe the woman doctor and her words.

Therefore he had no reason to doubt Walter would be fine, and that he had completed his task.

“Mr. Standing Bear? You can go see your friend, he’s awake and well enough for one more visit. I think he’d like to thank the man who saved his life, too,” the woman doctor said, and then it was his turn to be led into the back.

“Doctor Wallace, needed on OR!” someone down the hall shouted, she was off, running to help someone else in need.

For his part he lingered outside the door, watching Omar and Walter converse. Their heads leaned together as they walked in low tones, baiting and sniping at each other from the expressions on their faces. It was like watching two young bucks locking horns. 

He already knew who would win, but it amused him to watch. Just for a moment, taking in the sight of the man he had been dragging around half the night. He could take a minute to really _look_ , now that he knew he was not dying. He looked better, now that he wasn’t in the midst of dying, his skin a healthy flush, dark brown hair that curled at the ends. 

He couldn't see into his eyes, it was his one regret. He recalled how they had said so much more than his words, which were sparse and often stilted. Not like his blue eyes, which shone with the brightness of his soul. 

_‘Not real’_ Walter had said at the shack, half out of his mind but conscious when he had briefly woken. They had been very young when they first met, it was not impossible that Walter had written him off as the imaginings of a childhood fancy. 

_Howling Wolf, his made-up Indian friend._ Magic was not such a large part of Walter Longmire’s world, not like it was part of _his_. 

Maybe it would be best to leave now before stepping into the room and being greeted with a strangers polite smile and unknowing gaze. That would sting, just a little and he was already worn thin from the events of the night. While _he_ might know _Walter, Spirit Boy, his dear blue-eyes,_ the man on that bed within that door did not know _Standing Bear_. He knew nothing of blood curses, impractical magic, and time travel. 

Perhaps it was for the best that he remained that way. 

Walter Longmire had a good life, and a good woman. What if he stepped inside that room and he _did_ remember? 

It would change things, these kinds of things always did. 

What then? He still had to leave, and the magic of the rock of bygone days was no more. It was only briefly that the stars themselves aligned, pulling him into this time. 

This was it, it was now or never. 

Standing Bear cursed himself for a coward but he did not enter the room. Walter's life was good, and his own was waiting, there was no need to further upset the balance by lingering. It was only briefly that the stars themselves aligned, pulling him into this time. 

He did not expect they would ever meet again.

“Standing Bear? That you hovering out there? Get in here so this stubborn jack-ass can say thank you!” Omar called out. 

“Omar, keep it down! People are resting.” Walt snapped.

He didn’t hear the rest of what they said to one another, already backtracking to the waiting room, and down the hall that they had first used upon entry. It was time to go home, the white beat was beginning to pulse and burn where it rested on his chest. A clear sign that he needed to leave before he further entangled himself with a man from another time.

A woman stopped in her tracks at the sight of him and he quickened his pace, observing her from the corner of his eyes as he passed her in the long, wide hallway. He knew it was not the blood that made her eyes widen because they had not strayed from his face. 

She looked at him as if he were an apparition; her own skin becoming pale as a ghost. 

He caught her scent as he passed: wild flowers, lavender, and something deep and earthy. Her blond hair curled around her shoulders in a blond wave, lovely even in the harsh false-light of the building. Her eyes were _almost_ as vibrantly blue as Walters.

Her mouth had dropped open at the sight of him, especially as the distance between them lessened in the moment before he passed her. 

She looked to be caught in the grips of some emotion. There was recognition, but that was impossible. He had never seen her before. His heart did not waver from Thunder Boy but would have remembered a face like hers.

He did not wait around to see what it was about him that had her so out of sorts; attracting that kind of attention from a _white woman_ in a place inhabited by _white people_ did not seem a good idea. 

They locked eyes for the second it took him to pass her by, he waited to see if she would call out for help, or _‘stop’_ or anything at all. Standing Bear was not sure if what he felt was relief or disappointment when she let him pass without speaking a single word.

It did not matter.

He was going home, the white bead was pulling at him.

A gentle but insistent tug that he felt in his head and his heart.

He _needed_ to go home.

Or was it that _he_ was needed at home?

There was no way of knowing but all thought of lingering vanished like so much smoke and ash.

Standing Bear raced towards the closest abandoned space he could find, his heart thudding in his chest and sweat beating on his brow. He felt the magics pull washing over him, painful and disorientating as it had been when it called to him in the sweat lodge.

Something was wrong, he did not know how this realization come to him only that once it had, it would not leave. He thought of Thunder Boy and his booming laugh, Little Fox’s gentle smile, and his mother’s sparkling eyes as time bent and weaved around him.

_Take me home,_ was Standing Bears’ last thought as the soft darkness of blackness descended, enfolding him in its timeless embrace, and he knew no more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: _Dear Readers,_
> 
> I apologize for the delay but you may have noted this was not a short chapter. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoy!
> 
> PS: Who was that woman in the hall? Any guesses? *gasp* 
> 
> PSS: Comments and Kudos (help) feed the writers soul.


	8. Soul's Eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1725 and Standing Bear must travel many roads if he hopes to rejoin his family. As he traveled he was reminded of the silence from before, his constant companion and knew that he would gladly trade it for Thunder Boy and all his noise or Red bear with all his jealous glowering. Above all else, he missed his family and his own heart-song.
> 
> Meanwhile his dreams were troubling, filled with dark things, and a specter that growled from the shadows.

#  _**Wyoming: 1725** _

For one terrible moment he thought he had gone blind, everything was dark. He did not have long to worry before he became sick, his stomach violently rebelling. Again. _Time-traveling was a tiring business,_ he decided, inhaling deeply through his nose.

He pulled a deep lungful of air into his body, taking in the old familiar scents, pine, cedar, and lavender. Then, he realized something. He could hear the lazy ripple of a stream, and the angry screeching of red-tailed hawks. He was home; returned to his familiar hunting grounds. Relief, so thick and heavy it almost sent him to his knees rushed into his chest, leaving him giddy and anxious to reunite with his loved ones. 

He had not gone blind; the world he left behind had fallen into night. The sun would rise in a matter of hours, then the world would be bright once more and when he walked with Thunder Boy as his side and his family within grasp his heart would be made light as a feather. The light of _Pleiades_ was brighter than ever before, shining above his head, how true north once he picked up his people's trail.

There was no telling how much time had passed between closing his eyes in his land and opening them in Walter Longmire’s world. Nor did he know how long he had been gone from Thunder Boy’s side. Had it been weeks, days, or only hours? It had been more than hours he decided as he began walking towards where the camp had been: a day's hard ride from _Aspen Trading Post_ to the west of Owl Creek with _RattleSnake Mountains_ jutting into the skies to the east, and the sparsely populated _Black Oak_ settlement only a few miles north. It had been a good place to halt, good for trading, and good for hunting, with freshwater, to draw in the local game and keeping their own waterskins filled.

All he had to do was follow the water, that was how he came to be here only days ago so that he and Thunder Boy could speak loudly and with privacy before parting ways. His memory tripped over how they had argued and the passion with which they had made amends and he was momentarily breathless.

It had been good, so far as partings went; Thunder Boy’s touches had been harder, made desperate by uncertainty. His lover had not been the only one moved to bruising grips.

Standing Bear, with a sigh of regret, let the memory go. 

He had chosen the spot for its striking view, and the feel of the land that had called to him, a soft whisper that was easy on the mind. It had been a good place, absent violence beyond the laws of nature for many, many years. Not all places were as welcoming as the small grassy meadow with the tall cedar trees planted beside the water. For _this_ reason, more than any other, he had chosen it for his and Thunder Boy’s parting words, and lovemaking. 

It would rejoin with _Owl creek_ and lead him to where his tribe had last resided. From there, his ever-growing tracking skills would be called on. He had many questions and no answers, bereft of the company he had grown accustomed to in his days and nights. Now his only companion was his shadow. He was utterly alone and he felt it keenly. The deep empty stillness at his right hand, the place where his lover walked, was impossible to ignore. His world was silent, as it was in the days before Thunder Boy and the others, and he did not relish the change. 

_It will not be so forever,_ he consoled himself. 

He would head back to camp and see what clues had been left behind to follow. Hawk Woman was a wise and judicious leader, she would not linger in barren hunting grounds on account of _one_ errant brave, but rather trust that he would find his own way back or that he would not. It was the way of life, meeting and parting at the fork in the road. 

She was a leader, not a hand-holder, and he bore her no grudge. It had been foolish to imagine that he would follow the magic of the white bead home to find everything exactly as he had left it. Where and when he had left it, too. That he might open his eyes and see Thunder Boy still standing by the creek that led to _Black Oak_ if one traveled in a northerly direction. It defied reason to assume that all would remain untouched by the passing of time. It was the shortsighted foolhardy thoughts of a boy, to think such things, and Standing Bear castigated himself for a fool. 

His heart, at times, clouded his head. And his desire to see Thunder Boy was strong. 

Still, he knew better. It was never that simple. Life did not stand still like the mountains that shook hands with the Creator at their highest peaks; it trundled forwards like a river. It neither stopped nor cared for those unfortunates who were left behind along the wayside of the long winding road. A body learned to swim, or they sank, it was truly as simple as that. The Wheel of Fortune had turned, and this time he had been left behind. 

Yet, he took heart, it would spin again, and perhaps then he might fare better. The ill-luck of tonight may yet merge into tomorrow's prosperity. Time, however, was unforgiving. It had not stopped for Running Eagle, Swift Coyote, or Yellow Cloud who he feared might even now have passed from the coughing sickness and joined his ancestors in the mysteries that lay behind the veil that separated life from death.

It would not halt for him, either. He was but a man in the greater mechanics of fate. Nothing for it but to move forward. He sighed, tired and careworn from his many tangled thoughts and worries, from which he could admit he needed Thunder Boy to tear him from.

Thunder Boy was good at that, pulling him from his head and back into his body with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and the fervor of his kisses, a hot line of fire down his throat. His body stirred, awakening at his wandering thoughts and he sighed _again_ resigned to being as the willow, its branches which groaned and cried as the winds of change twisted it's tired limbs.

He had no time for such things. 

_Thunder Boy, always causing trouble,_ he mused, even when he resided only in Standing Bears' thoughts. 

First, he needed to change back into his old clothes, and burn the old. Standing alone in the place where the camp had once been, Standing Bear removed the clothes that were unlike his own until he was naked in the pale moonlight. He rummaged through Slims bag and re-clothed himself in old familiar garments; glad to be rid of the others that stank of blood and chemicals that had filled the world he had left behind. Making use of flint and a few branches he burned the old clothes. It felt like a bad thing, to take objects from the other place and just leave them lying around where they could perhaps disrupt the order of things. He could bury them deep within the earth, he supposed but buried things had a way of coming to light. 

He chose fire, burning the clothes, watching the flames burn them to ash carried off on the high winds. That done Standing Bear surveyed the land, knowing they would have left a trail. He knew their hearts, even as they knew his. 

He was the best tracker among his tribe. If they left something for him to follow, he would be home among his family before too many more sunrises passed. They would be reunited soon; he refused to consider anything else. Yet, there was a feeling, a small voice that whispered in the quiet hours, that something was wrong. He set it aside with a will, baseless fear would do him no service. He needed sleep for the days to come. It was by the light of the sun, not the moon, in which the best tracking was done. This was what he used to console himself as he bedded down for the night he consoled himself that he would move quickly at first light. There were no obvious signs to follow, if he tried to track them now he could end up going in the wrong direction and lengthen the distance and time separating him from his family.

_Better to wait for daylight,_ he thought, counting the stars in the sky as sleep crept over him. The day had been long and his body was tired, Standing Bear blinked out of the conscious world the moment his eyes slid shut, blotting out the stars that shone like a thousand sparkling points of light, piercing the velvet blackness of the night sky.

He rose before the sun, rested, and ready to begin his search. His eyes narrowed as he scanned his surroundings, easily picking up the heavy travel of many feet moving in an eastern direction towards _RattleSnake Mountains_. In proper lighting it was easy to see the direction they had taken, he cursed himself for his blindness last night and he began running with long ground eating strides. An unknown fear gripped his heart, a looming disquiet that shadowed him driving him harder and faster. 

The white bead lay silent and dormant no matter how he tried reaching for it, asking for answers. The magic seemed gone as it rested against his skin. It was only a heartfelt gift from his mother; nothing more and nothing less and it would no longer speak with him. Fine. He was a good tracker and he had become faster since rescuing Walter in the mountains. 

He did not need help; the tracks were not hard to follow for many people were traveling together, which made following them easier than tracking one or two humans on foot. Along the way he fished, catching salmon with his hands, and hunted, felling small game with his quick wit and the edge of his knife. He reserved the rifle ammunition for serious threats. With each day that passed that the distance between him and his family remained his sleep became darker and more troubled; he woke from his dreaming with the smell of blood and death strong in the air for those few seconds when he wandered between the waking and sleeping world. It faded with his first indrawn breath, which spoke only of the woods and the hint of oncoming rains.

A feeling of some dark malady clung to his back, becoming heavier with every mile. He carried it on his shoulders without complaint hoping to close the distance and reach his family before it came to pass. Hawk Woman was now taking them north towards _No Water Creek_ , the trail became harder and harder to follow as time passed but he did not stop. They were moving faster, he’d come across a few dead ponies that had been ridden too hard, and this concerned him, as did Hawk Woman’s chosen direction. She was headed straight for the _Black Canyon_ ; known for its dark color and deep gorges, but the hunting was only passing fair.

It was a hidden trail, known by few, hidden with a dense copse of trees that obscured the path. It was the rare mountain man that dared that trail if they found it. He had been through there only once before and was loath to return. The air was heavy, and the earth was disturbed, a disturbance that had left his young mind rattled. They had retreated within the _Black Canyons_ to avoid a Crow war band, and it had worked.

A group of ten to twenty braves had trailed them; Hawk Woman had ordered everyone to remain close to the firelight and burned juniper, sage, and roe throughout the night. He remembered the screaming, when night fell, and the eerie howling that lasted until morning light touched the sky.

If Hawk Woman chanced a return it was to lead another, greater enemy, to their demise. He could see it now, she took them there in the hopes that what hunted within the rocks and crevices would prey upon _her_ enemies.

He could see her scheme now, and it was clever, but he did not like it. 

What had worked once before might not work again. He feared that the enemy of her enemy would slay Hawk Woman and all who followed her just the same. 

During the seemingly endless nights he dreamed of three great owls perched on the highest branches of a dead tree, watching from above as Hawk Woman and his mother passed into the forest that led to _Black Canyon_. 

Hawk Woman saw them too, and he saw how she shuddered, unable to tell if they were real owls or something _else_ : _Mista_ , preternatural spirits of the night. It was only a strong Medicine Man who could tell a normal owl from the other kind.

He dreamed of a red fox, its bloodied paw trapped by steel claws as crow's gouge out its eyes. He trailed his hand down its fur, feeling the warmth as its body cooled. It had not been dead long. Beside it was a small coyote. It was untouched but lay as though dead. 

Standing Bear did not dream of Thunder Boy and considered it a blessing. His dreaming was ugly and dark; it wore at his mind and his body, leaving him trapped within the troubling images that took over his sleeping moments until he woke. His terrible, blood-filled dreaming came with an earth that cried out drenched in bloody tears, and it did not stop. 

The pit of dread became a stone in his belly growing worse and worse each night until he woke with choking gasps and wordless shouts. 

He shook for long minutes, struggling to catch his breath and bring himself back into order. If he could do without sleep altogether he would have. It became such that he shuddered over the simple act of laying down his head to sleep. It was always the same thing each night once he reached the south side of _RattleSnake Mountains._

In his dream, he reached a break in the trees thick with fog and when it cleared he saw them, the dead and the dying and the ones who had done the killing looting, shoving their large crude bodies into blood-stained tipis looking for goods and money to sell. There were many men on horseback, but they were not soldiers and they wore no uniform. Some had white skin, others were dark and tanned like Mexicans, and they looked a rough sort and possessed hard mouths -- faces without kindness and eyes without mercy. There was something else there too, but he could not lay eyes on it clearly; a black shadow that growled from the corners, stinking of decay. 

It was to blame, he knew.

_It_ was the cause. 

But he knew not what it was, though it looked similar to a lean and broad-chested dog with thick matted fur black as tar and eyes that glow red like fire-coals. He blinked and the dark figure was gone. He heard women and children screaming on all sides, their cries echoing off the canyon walls that hemmed them in. A gunshot, loud like the crack of thunder followed by a deep stillness that could be felt down to the bone. 

Then, and only then, would he wake, his face damp with tears and his body drenched in sweat. 

Standing Bear pushed himself to his very limits, halting only when his body failed or required food, so great were the horrors that plagued his dreams. He ran faster and harder than a human man could, but this time there was no wonder or excitement; he was hollow within. Fear had him in its grasp, and it squeezed at his heart so tightly that it became a physical ache he could not banish.

But still, he did not stop, he had to reach his family before...before. 

After two days of hard traveling and sleepless nights and he crossed paths with an old gray-bearded man who had come down from the mountains on his way to the trading post. Standing Bear did not look his best, he was certain, but the man waved towards him anyhow. It was an open invitation to share his campfire for the night. As he approached he eyed the man, speculating that he had been away from town for quite a while. In his experience, it happened sometimes, that when a man had been away from human contact for a long spell the color of skin became a lesser issue than it might otherwise be.

Although in his experience mountain men and trappers had always proven to be less fussy about such matters than townspeople. Standing Bear paused a few yards away squinting against the sun that was in the process of vanishing behind the black mountain peaks. It would be dark soon, and the man did not seem to have any ill manner about him as he offered a helping of dried jerky.

Standing Bear, too practical to turn down free food, accepted.

“Hello, friend,” the man said, having been watching him eat without commentary until he had finished. 

He returned the frank gaze, noting the heavy amount of gray threading the man's matted hair and thick beard. He had a square jaw and the scar that dragged from the corner of his mouth to his ear enhanced the clean cut of his features. It looked like an enemy had tried for his throat and been diverted, it was an old wound, nothing more than thin white lines against weather-beaten skin. There was a gun propped at his feet, and the man across from Standing Bear was well aware when his eyes tracked to it, before turning away.

The man grinned a little wider, a mild baring of fangs, all the while unspeaking. Not threatening, but warning off acts of violence. Standing Bear met his eyes without flinching. There were some Indians who would slit the man's throat for such a weapon, for it was finely made. But he was not one; he already had a fine weapon. Thunder Boy’s gift that even now rested against his knees. He had no need for another.

Having taken one another’s measure without a word, they both nodded, and exchanged names, speaking on where they hailed from and where they were headed. The rugged, gray-bearded man was called Simon, and he told wild stories of how he had been given the name _Bear Claw_ by the Comanche. He tugged the claw from beneath his shirt as he told the story. It turned out that was how he got his scar; his enemy had not been a man, but an angry bear that was woken from hibernation by two foolish young Comanche braves. 

White Knife and his friend, Spirit Talker, Simon had come to learn after the fight was done and the bear killed. The two braves had taken him back to camp where Whites Knife's beautiful sister Prairie Flower stitched his wounds.

To hear his telling of it one thing led to another and he left in spring with a strong and fair-faced Comanche wife. 

It was a good story, though Standing Bear did not know how much he believed. Simon ruefully explained that Prairie Flower was waiting for him at their cabin a few miles back. She had become sick of his company and threw him out, telling him to get necessities from town. 

“What necessities, I asked,” Simon chortled, “but the door was already closed and barred, and the bed in there would be colder than snow, so here I am fetching _necessities_ while Prairie Flower enjoys some time to herself.”

“Hmm,” Standing Bear said, stuck for words. 

Simon's talk of his wife had him missing his own lover, the solid strength of his body, a comfort, and shield from cold nights. They had fought and argued before of course, but always set such matters aside by nightfall to better enjoy one another's bodies in the dark. Especially the long nights of winter. He missed Thunder Boy sorely at that moment. Simon, thinking his own thoughts fell silent and Standing Bear quietly drifted into memory.

He and Thunder Boy had argued, what about he could not remember. Whatever it was he was certain it had been small and stupid. But, they had retreated to their separate corners and remained so for one full day and night in a long, terrible silence.

Night had fallen and with it the temperatures had dropped, it was then that Thunder Boy entered his tipi full of remorse and heavy regret that weighed at his shoulders so that they were slumped and his chin low.

Unwilling to roll over so quick he had folded his arms across his chest and waited him out. _Let him speak the first words this time,_ he had thought.

“I am sorry,” Thunder Boy had said, now seated across from him. He wanted to reach out, to touch, to hold, and chase off that lingering sadness in his eyes. But he did not do those things.

He recalled now, it had not even been Thunder Boy he was angry with, but another man in the tribe who called him _“Half-Man”_ with cruel laughter.

All his life he had been half this, half that, and never _enough_. And while he had made peace with this he did not welcome the reminder. It was old insecurity that spoke to him, whispering fell thoughts in his ear, from time to time. It was not Thunder Boy he was angry at it was himself.

Still, that realization had not dawned on him, stuck in the moment and his _head_ as he had been. 

“I was being rash, it is true -- it is only fair that you called me on it,” Thunder Boy sighed. “I should not have said what I did, either -- that -- that was wrong. I know you are on my side, I know your strength.”

Thunder Boy inched closer with every word, his hand at first resting on his knee, then sliding to his bare thigh, before sliding higher to rub against the patch of skin just left of his stomach. He was not stone, Thunder Boy’s touch ignited a fire in the wake of his hands, and the pull to give in and give way to anything and everything he might ask was strong.

“I am still angry,” he had said, his words more breathless than anything.

Thunder Boy did not call _him_ on this, but he would have known the truth.

He was not angry -- not then.

“Then be angry tomorrow,” Thunder Boy had suggested, his hands sliding to undo the ties that covered his hardness leaving him completely bare to his lover's gaze. 

“Tomorrow,” he had agreed, his arms wrapping around Thunder Boy's neck as he pulled him on top, sprawling back onto his bed of furs. 

No more words were spoken that night and in the morning when he woke with Thunder Boys arms still wrapped around him, a solid wall of heat that staved off the cold, all was forgotten, and the rest was forgiven. 

Standing Bear shook off the past, though he held tight to the phantom touch of arms around his shoulders. It would be good to lean on someone else, to take comfort from the one person he would accept it. But he could not, Thunder Boy was many miles ahead and he was here, too far behind. He supposed he was being poor company staring vacantly into the firelight but he did not have it in him to pretend his heart was light as a feather. 

Standing Bear was too tired, clean down to the bone, for any complicated pretenses right now. He dreaded what dreams might come to him at night and had decided he would take first watch when the matter was raised. When he looked to his companion he could tell his lapse had not been noticed. Or perhaps it had, and Simon was being kind. 

He sometimes forgot, when alone too long, that people could do that too. Be kind.

“Light of my life Prairie Flower is! But it surely is good to trade talk with a man,” Simon laughed, toasting him as he took a pull from his whiskey flask. 

“Want some? Sure warms the blood?” 

“No, thank you.”

He did not wish to dull his senses this night. Simon seemed harmless, he was good company even, but Standing Bear did not trust strangers no matter how entertaining their stories. He would sleep with his wits intact, not buried six feet under the haze of alcohol. It was a good way to end up six feet below the earth, tucked away in eternal sleep. 

Standing Bear did not share how he came to _his_ name in turn but shared instead that he had been separated from his family who he now sought. Simon turned thoughtful, his scratching his head absently before speaking.

“I’ve heard talk, not much see? It’s probably the usual superstitious rabble...but I’ve heard talk from men who don’t fall into superstitious clap-trap so easily, and they say to stay clear of that little canyon bluff east of _RattleSnake Mountains_.”

Standing Bear came to attention, warned by Simon’s troubled demeanor that this was not the casual talk of before. The bluff he spoke of was connected to where he and Hawk Woman were headed. There was a legitimate concern in the frown pulling at Simon's mouth, the lines at the corner of his eyes furrowing into deep grooves. It did nothing to dismay his own concerns regarding _Black Canyo_ n and his black dreams of death and bloodshed.

“I will remember this,” Standing Bear said, a deep shadow falling across his face as he stared into the fire. “Thank you, Simon.”

“Sure, sure,” Simon starred in the fire, shaking his head. “It’s nothing I’m sure,” Simon said, but it sounded like what he _wanted_ to believe and not what he suspected to be the _truth_ of the matter. It said a lot that this man was uneasy about the talk he’d been hearing. Standing Bear did not dismiss the warning out of hand.

“It’s just different somehow. So I figured I ought to at least share what I’d been told, let you decide for yourself what trails to take or not take. Spring will pass into winter soon, Standing Bear. I’ve found people and places can become a whole new kind of ugly during the long winter spells, tucked away, eking out a living on preserves.”

“There is truth to this,” Standing Bear said, thinking of the stories of his people, the relentless hunger of the _Wendigo_.

It was a cannibalistic creature of bottomless hunger that roamed the wild and isolated places. Killing and killing and killing -- eating the flesh of whatever fell into its dark hands but never sated.

Hawk Woman said they were once men, these creatures, who after tasting the flesh of family became monsters. For their crimes, they were punished with a hunger that never ceased. Was it this that Hawk Woman was leading whoever followed her towards? Perhaps. 

But he had a bad feeling it would not end how she wanted.

“There’s talk, you know? Of something picking off travelers after dark. Assuming they stray too close to old _RattleSnake Mountains_. A lot of disappearances clustered in that stretch -- to hear Calhan talk. More than usual, anyhow, so watch yourself, yeah? I'd hate to see your pretty face eaten off by whatever’s doing the killing.” 

Standing Bear snorted. “Do not worry for me, worry for yourself. Or for the thing that mistakes me for easy prey.”

He spoke with a confidence he did not feel, hoping to lighten the steep tension that had fallen over their small campfire. There were times when speaking ill things could bring them to a person's door and he had enough to handle.

Simon laughed a deep baritone chuckle that rumbled from his belly. “You know what? I believe you,” he chuckled, slapping his knee. “Your something else, Standing Bear, that’s certain,” he said, quieter, tapping his nose with a twinkle in his grass-green eyes.

Standing Bear froze stock still at Simon’s low spoken words.

Every muscle locked up, prepared for fight or flight, as he watched Simon watch _him_. 

“I don’t know quite what, but you are. I know things, I do. Runs in the family see? Always called it the uncanny, Grandma Beacher did. No matter, no matter,” Simon muttered.

“I’m turning in for the night. You take the first watch?” Simon asked, already tucking into his blankets. 

“I will,” Standing Bear agreed, his expression guarded.

“Oh stop with the look, son. I won't ask and I don’t care,” Simon grunted, his eyes locked on Standing Bear who met them head-on. “I know you won’t slit my throat in the dark and steal my gun and that’s about all I _need_ to be knowing.”

“You are very certain of this -- for a man who does not know me.”

“I know enough, call it uncanny, call it intuition, I know that’s not the kind of man you are, son, now kindly shut up and let an old man sleep.”

Standing Bear snorted but did as asked, and the night passed without event. The night passed into day and Standing Bear readied himself to part ways with Simon _‘Bear Claw’_ Beacher.

Simon didn’t speak much in the morning, guzzling his black coffee but the look in his eye was sad. 

“Do not worry, all will be well. The creature will not even hear me passing,” Standing Bear assured the old man, clapping his arm. “I am in too much of a rush to hunt beasts of any nature, human or animal.”

Simon grunted wordlessly and still unhappy.

“If -- if things don’t work out so well? As you expect? The Missus and I live on Pine Ridge, a little place we’ve carved out. You are welcome there if you get a hankering for Comanche cooking, and an old man's tales.”

“All will be well, Simon,” Standing Bear repeated, and continued his journey.

He refused to let himself acknowledge that it was what he _wanted_ to believe and not a certainty he clung to. A far off and distant hope that grew smaller with every passing hour.

Simon went in the direction of the trading post, whistling against the wind in surprisingly good cheer for a man who had been effectively kicked from his house, while he for his part made his way deeper into _RattleSnake Mountain_ seeking the hidden entrance to _Black Canyon_ , and whatever it was that waited for him there.

He remembered the road, though it had been long ago. He remembered the crush of fear that overcame him once they passed from the mountains into the canyon. It had been a baseless alarm, but he had not forgotten. There had been an ill feeling in the air, as though the land itself wished to devour them between the two rocks that jutted into the sky on either side forcing people and horses to tread in tight clusters that only narrowed the farther they walked. 

_I was a child then it will be different now_ , he assured himself.

A new day bred new possibility and Standing Bear would not let Simons’ fretful disposition crush it. It was only the dreams, preying on his mind that colored his memories. Nothing more and nothing less than that he decided. He _would_ find his family and all would be as it should.

_Let Fortune’s Wheel turn in my favor,_ he thought, invoking the spirits as he struggled to keep a level head amid the doubts that preyed on his troubled mind. After parting ways with Simon he closed the impossible gap between him and his destination. He stopped for rest and food, though hunting small game was easier than quieting the churning thoughts that would not be still and silent with the fall of night.

Instead, his disquiet grew as if connected to the pitch-blackness of the moonless nights that descended as he drew nearer to his destination.

Sleep often evaded his grasp.

Standing Bear lay quiet on the ground, head pillowed by his arms, recouping what strength he could in the long hours between dusk and dawn. Sometimes it happened that he slipped between awake and sleeping, his hands tight around the medicine bag gifted to him by Lame Bull on his seventeenth begetting day. There was a comfort in holding on to the things he carried that were gifts, becoming little talismans that warded off the worst of his troubled dreams.

He told himself the dreams meant nothing, only that he worried too much. 

He told himself lies for they were easier to tolerate when there was little to be done. 

_Finally, finally_ , he thought when he had traveled so long within _RattleSnake Mountain_ he had forgotten what the stars looked like.

Hidden as they had been by tower trees with interlocking canopies that kept him from the white starlight. He did not fear the dark, yet he did not relish walking in it for so long without natural lights to shine forth on the paths he tread. There was a heavy silence within the woods, every breath seemed too loud, and each snapped twig some grave offense. It was an uncanny place, steeped in mystery, the path that led to _Black Canyon_. It was unwelcoming to travelers who did not know the path, by chance or design, he did not know.

Only that he ought to tread light and fast. 

_Black Canyon_ stretched out before him and three owls, much like the ones from his dream, were perched in a dead and withered tree above him. He shouldered his way through the brush that scratched at his arms to ribbons and dense trees that worked to slow down his pace until he was fully placed on the path Hawk Woman had led them to all those years ago. 

He liked it no more now as a man than he had before as a child. Everything about this land was twisted and dark as the name it had been given so long ago. No good would come from returning. For all that he did not know this was a certainty. Even as the thought passed through his mind the three owls who had been shadowing his dreams let loose a chilling wail, shrill and piercing, before taking flight and he had the unsettling feeling that his presence had just been announced.

But to whom? That he did not know. There had been too damn much he didn’t know since he’d returned from Walter Longmire’s world.

His muscles tightened, his breathing slowed allowing him to hear beyond the pounding of his heart. He thought of the unknown shadow figure in his dreams, the one that remained hidden in the corner but its low rumbling growl, and wondered. But not for long. 

He kept his rifle at the ready as he walked deeper and deeper into the canyon, which seemed to close in on him from all sides. He set aside his own fears, wrapping them tightly within a sturdy box, and continued. 

He came to a small clearing and his heart skipped a beat to see with his own waking eyes what had been only in his dreams until now. A sudden fog, unnatural and strange, fell upon the path. Standing Bear could see no more than a few feet ahead, and the sun was low in the sky. The night was falling upon the land, the sky was shot through with strokes of red and orange that would soon fade to black as the moon took its place, gleaming full and round. He could not see, his vision obscured by the relentless gray fog, but he could not tarry longer. Not with this terrible dread clinging to his back like a leech.

He remembered the path from childhood and broke out into a dead run. Wailing started up when he did this but he ignored it. If death wanted him it would have to do better than that. Sounds alone would not scare him off the path. He began to hear other things too, the sounds of fighting, women screaming, children crying, and the hard pound of horse hooves striking against the unforgiving rocks. 

He crested the hill as the sun set. Through the fading of the light and the parting of the unnatural mist, he could see all that lay below -- the dead and the dying, and those who had done the killing. His clan was outnumbered ten to one. Standing Bear rushed forwards until he was within firing range and crouched beside a large rock, picking off the men leaving small round holes in their wide foreheads.

One shot, one kill until he had no more ammunition.

He threw aside his rifle and took up his knife, catching sight of his mother and Little Fox and the two men who chased them. The canyon in that direction would fatally box them in. 

Hawk Woman’s choice had gone to shit. Whatever lurked within the shadow of _RattleSnake Mountain_ and _Black Canyon_ had withheld from partaking in the ensuing battle. Or worse, it remained, lying in wait in the shadows to come like beasts that followed in the aftermath of battles, the wolf, coyote, crows, and vultures that were often seen picking clean the bones of the dead.

Standing Bear killed any who turned to him with a weapon upraised. He felled two men with the cut of his knife across their pale white throats. He mortally wounded another but did not stop to finish him. His attention was fixed on the man with the red bandana, and the man in the blue coat. He shoved friend and foe from his way as he fought his way to his mother; her screams were louder than all the rest. She was his mother; he had to reach her before further harm was done. He knew well the night terrors that crept over her on long nights, ever all these years later, he had held her after each one, full of guilt, shame, and anger. His life had been bought at the expense of Swift Coyote; as her son, this was something he never forgot.

Where was White Star in all this? It should have been him protecting his wife's honor.

White Star was a big man, who did not lack strength. Where was he now?

No sooner had the thought arose than his foot caught, and he looked down on the blood-smeared corpse of his stepfather. He felt a twinge; a brief _\-- unexpected --_ stab of regret but that was all. The man who had plagued his childhood was dead, and he felt nothing but pity.

He grimaced, sorrow for his mother's loss rising, and continued. 

Standing Bear could see that Little Fox was wounded. She was clutching her stomach with her hands bleeding into the white flowers that grew around where she had fallen. The man with the red bandana now had his mother's face in the canyon, his hands tearing at her skirts. 

Shouting a wordless scream to draw attention, Standing Bear rushed him, grabbing him by the arm and slicing open his belly with a deep vertical cut of his knife. His knife was sharp, and the tip just wide enough to do serious damage with enough force.

He stood over the man, panting, anger burning like fire-coals in his eyes. He shoved him onto his back with his foot and watched as his spirit absconded the living realm. 

It took him many minutes to die, blood gurgled from his wound as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Then, like the passing of a thread through the needle he was gone.

“Mother?” Standing Bear said, gently turning her around to face him. She was shaking like a leaf, blood smearing her face from wounds, and the blood of men she had wounded. She would not have suffered this indignity without fighting. Not _She Who OutWitted the Dark_ and defeated the hated yee naagloshii.

He hugged her tightly, uncaring for the blood-smeared and shared between their bodies. He had thought he might never see her eyes and the thought had been hard to swallow. 

“Little Fox!” his mother cried, dropping to her knees beside her dying friend. “Why? Why, did you do that? So stupid -- run I said,'' his mother cried, clutching her friend's hand. 

Standing Bear stepped away from the two women, his face wet with tears. His dreams had not been dreams. They had been foretelling what was to come. Little Fox would die -- the wound was fatal.

She had only minutes.

“Mm, and leave you? Never,” Little Fox muttered, curling around the wound that bled into the earth, staining it red. 

“It is you and it is me,” Little Fox said, coughing, reaching out for Swift Coyote and Standing Bear with both hands. 

“It is _us_ ,” Swift Coyote finished, clasping her hand. 

Standing Bear knelt, taking Little Fox’s hand as she breathed her last, final, breath. He smiled through the tears running hot and free down his face, and said the words that had always been Little Fox’s to say. 

“It is always _us_.” 

Once, very long ago, his tribe had been made of only _three_. It had been them, come what may. And here he stood, with only his mother counted among the living. He let go of Little Fox’s hand, not even cold, taking hold of his mother in an unbreakable grip as he scanned for an escape that he knew would not show itself. 

He had to save those that were left among the living. 

The dead needed no help. 

“We cannot remain here, mother. Tell me, where is Thunder Boy?” he asked, scanning the mass of fighting bodies again. 

He saw Soaring Hawk falter, a bright red stain spreading down his back -- he was dead before his knees hit the dirt. 

But Standing Bear did not see or _hear_ Thunder Boy. No matter how hard he listened he could not find the steady _thud-thud_ of the warriors' strong heart. 

He turned to his mother, clarifying. “I did not see or hear him.”

“Standing Bear there are too many and we too few -- you know this,” his mother said. “There is no escape, this is it.”

Swift Coyote did not answer her son straight out about Thunder Boy’s absence and it did not go unnoticed.

“No, there must be a way,” Standing Bear argued, leading her farther from the fighting. “Where did you last see him? Mother, please?” he begged, squeezing her hands tight enough that white stripes showed on her dark skin.

His mother said nothing but made him stop moving, cupping his face in her hands forcing him to look into her face. To see the truth he feared shining in her eyes. He could not breathe his pain was so great. He thought of a smooth, round rock, and endless skies of blue but it was not enough.

Not enough, ever again. 

He doubled over clutching his chest, as though fatally wounded his eyes clenched tight wishing that he could have pretended, for a second, a minute, an hour longer that Thunder Boy was not dead. The truth was physically wounding to him.

His face burned when his mother's hand struck him shaking him from his stupor with a real and tangible pain that forced him to come back from the black edge he had peered over. Black grief that reached out to him with clawed hands, seeking to pull him in Stygian depths. It would be waiting for him. Later. 

He opened his eyes, and the world was not as it was. 

Thunder Boy was dead.

“He died saving me and Little Fox, Standing Bear, be proud,” his mother explained, pulling him to her chest. He sank into her, blind to the blood and death bracketing them on all sides.

He held her to his chest, breathing in the scent of lavender beneath the sweat and grime. 

“He loved you so, my son.”

“I know.”

His mother held him tightly and he knew it was a farewell for all that her body was not cold with death, and her breath brushed against this cheek. 

“There is no escape, not for us,” she said, and he failed to understand until he saw the knife in her hand. Its edge glinted ominously in the pale light of the moon, curved like a snake's fang.

“Will you do this last thing? For your mother?” she begged.

“I cannot...endure _that_...Not ever again.”

Standing Bear clasped her shaking hands between his own. “It will not. I will not let that happen.”

His mother lifted her chin, staring him down. “And when you are lying dead, your blood feeding this fell place and soaking the dirt?” she asked, and he had no real answer to give. 

Standing Bear gaped, his mouth falling open and his eyed wild in the dark.

“No! I cannot -- do not ask that!” he demanded, backing away from her.

“Mother…” he begged, a hand clapped over his mouth. 

“If you ever loved me as a son should love his mother, you will do this. If ever you loved as a _human_ boy loves his mother, you will do this.” 

He flinched hard, his denials falling silent, for he loved his mother leagues more than he had ever loved himself. He took the knife from her hand, though his own trembled. He knew she was right. There was no escape, and death by enemies was not often swift. He had _seen_ what happened to women; the vulgar displays made of their bodies and the violence written in blood and bruises on naked skin.

There was no escape but death.

“As you will it, mother,” Standing Bear conceded with a voice that cracked like brittle wood cleaved down the center by an ax. Swift Coyote was right, as she so often was. They were outnumbered and the _Black Canyon_ had them boxed in. 

He was only one, and they were many. He could not kill them all.

“Be strong, son,” his mother said as she took the hand with the knife into her own as she guided it to her breast.

“I do love you, Standing Bear,” she whispered, her last words, as she helped him to plunge the knife into her heart.

Blood flowed hot and thick onto his hands and he threw his head back in a wordless scream the likes of which had never before met with air and sky. It clawed its way up from his throat and mingled with the sounds of battle; an uncontained force of boundless sorrow eclipsed his heart.

His mother had been alive and with him one minute and became a beautiful ashen corpse bleeding into the canyon the next. 

Standing Bear gently laid her lifeless body down; black hair that was only beginning to gray haloing around her head in a dark wave. The knife dropped from his hands. Standing Bear could not feel his hands; he could not feel _anything_ as his chest heaved with ragged sobs that tapered off to silence. His hands shook too hard to reach for a weapon and his heart half-wished to lie down and follow his family into the dirt embracing the Red Road. 

Swift Coyote was dead, her body lying only inches from Little Fox, their hands once more touching, joined even in death. 

He heard a gunshot, like a crack of thunder, and the distant screaming was stopped. At that moment he recalled all the little moments of doubt he had cast aside. The strange feeling that even as the sun waned on White Star’s time it was setting on him and Thunder Boy. 

Something that good could not possibly be his for long, he had once thought. 

How right -- how terribly right he had been. 

Thunder Boy was dead, and here he was alive, coated with the blood of his own mother and his enemies. So cruelly, _terribly_ , alive. Logic did not bend its knee in the face of his grief that was over pouring from the depths of a black well. 

It had no beginning. 

It had no end. 

Only its violent moment of _becoming_. 

Standing Bear buried himself in guilt, brick by brick until his spirit trembled beneath the weight of it. He should have done more. He should have been here with them from the beginning. He should have been faster. 

Stronger…Better…More…

All these things he thought, inflicting deep wounds across his spirit that burned; a brand that would never fully heal. 

He glared into the pale round moon, his eyes glowing and shimmering as his whole body shook with the strain; it was unraveling. 

He heard mocking taunts, jeering laughter, as the rough crowd of men called him a woman, a girl, a half-man, to shed tears on the battlefield.

Their coarse laughter reminded Standing Bear of the crows in his dreams. The ones who had pecked out the eyes of a little red fox, already gone from this world. The dead, at least, did not suffer.

Their pain was done.

It was the living that carried the bricks upon their back, the ghosts of those loved and lost.

Louder and louder became the crow’s laughter, so that he could not ignore them.

If he could have ignored them, perhaps, the night might have ended differently. 

But they laughed and laughed, black-winged crows circling a standing bear that had only the dead to safe keep.

_What guilt I might carry,_ he reminded himself, _they had been the instruments of death on this night killing women and children._ The weight of his guilt was as a feather compared to their own, for they had acted with malice in their hearts.

“We’ll get a fair sum for these scalps and ponies, Matt,” a man in the back remarked. He had a crooked nose. “There’s more than twenty braids here, more maybe, not counting the lice. And the goods.” 

“Shit, Taro, you killed all the women, you zealous bastard,” one of the men grunted.

“Now where am I supposed to wet my prick, huh?”

“He’s not so bad,” Taro snorted, thumbing in Standing Bears direction. “Cried the same as their women anyhow.”

A Mexican with bad teeth and a necklace of bones laughed. 

“Puta,” the Mexican said, wetting his lips, and Standing Bear, through his haze of emotions, knew that this was not headed anywhere good. 

He was the last man among his people that still drew breath; this realization drew him from his spiral.

What happened next seemed to drag on for eternity, but was in reality no more than in instant. The opening and closing of a moth's dusty wings as his thoughts turned him inside and out. 

Something deep and dark stirred within him, triggered by the act of his hands, which were still wet and trembling coated with his mother's blood.

The dark thing that had been silent so long within gnashed its teeth and howled, a sound of fury that thirsted for bloodshed.

Its time was come. 

Blood, so much blood, he inhaled the scent and his anger grew tenfold. All this death, and why? What wrong had Hawk Woman done, to deserve this? What of Thunder Boy and Little Fox with the ready smile? He clutched at the canyon rock, slicing his palms bloody against the rock, nails splitting at the force of his grip. Pointless, so pointless, for them to die here and now. 

It was just as his dream had foretold.

The dark thing within his chest thrashed against the bars of its cage, where it had languished so long.

Waiting. 

Standing Bear felt it as it rattled, crashing against the bones of his ribs, imprisoned by bones and flesh and his will alone. 

It wanted to get out.

Blood. It was everywhere, the thick coppery scent of it was seeping into the ground at his feet the life's blood of his family. The smell of death and decay suffocated him but he did not run. The growing darkness within gnashed its teeth and he stood firm. _For now_.

He took it all into himself, into his lungs and his blood and his bones. 

He had heard them all, the last breathe of his tribe, as they lay dead and dying among the orange autumn leaves of the scattered trees within _Black Canyon_. He was witness to this and the stars above were his: to how his body burned hot and cold and the little voice that whispered in the dark became louder and louder. 

_Give in,_ it said, and _why not_ , what purpose was there to reign in this storm brewing from within. He would be a judge and dealer of death to those who bore the mark of guilt. His mother, his clever, cunning mother, had surely known this. One man alone would die on a night like this. The son of a _yee naagloshii,_ once triggered by a kin slaying,was another matter. It did not matter that it was a mercy killing, not when his hands were drenched in the blood of his mother. 

_Clever_[ _ó'kôhóme_](http://cheyennelanguage.org/words/animals/coyote.wav) _,_ Little Fox would have said if she yet drew breath for speaking.

He closed his eyes and saw another woman, her hair a washed-out gray in the ghost glow of the moon.

It was Hawk Woman, she spoke to him but her mouth did not move. 

“Avenge us, Standing Bear,” Hawk Woman said to him as her eyes closed forever. He could not see her, not with his _eyes_ , but he could feel her spirit as it departed this realm. He _knew_ her body lay beneath a barren Oak that had become brittle and bent from countless storms. Just as he knew that he would never hear her speak again. He saw the shadow of a great owl swooping to land at her feet as her body began to cool and his grief grew by tenfold. 

_Give in_ , the voice from within said, landing softly as spring rain on his ears that still rang with death-knells. Locked within a battle of wills; his hands freshly wet with his mother's blood he thought, _yes_ , and loosed the storm. 

He could barely control the force stirring within his breast that moved with the wildness of a hurricane desiring the destruction of all things.

_Kill, to ease the hurt._ These were the words of his father's blood speaking. _No, kill to spare others._ These were his mother's words. _Kill, to protect._ That would have been Thunder Boy’s advice, the words of his own true heart-song. 

Standing Bear balanced on the crossroads of becoming something great and terrible. He felt a deep thrumming vibration run through his body, the scent of thunderstorms and the smoke of raging fires crashing into his heightened senses with enough force that he staggered, struggling to keep his feet. When the disorientation cleared he did not smell blood and death. His vision cleared, the white bead around his neck pulsing hot where it nestled against bare skin. He had traveled in time.

He looked into the new landscape sprawling before him and saw his friend of old. The blue-eyed Spirit Boy _\-- Walter Longmire --_ sitting with a beautiful woman beneath a blooming apple tree.

They looked very much in love. 

The woman was someone he had seen before in the long white halls of another world. Martha, that was the name Walter had repeated as he danced between living and dying. She looked well, and like everything a man might hope for, a sweet face, and kind eyes. He let her image overlay the blood that smeared his vision in a miasma of red.

Standing Bear buried his gasp clenched between his teeth, keeping silent, as memories from long before broke to the forefront of his thoughts. _Wally._ He thought of him, and how badly he had wanted to be _good_ , to be _enough_. They had been simple times, and he missed them now that they were gone. This had never changed, had it? It was still true, even as the smoke and the fire and the blood, which painted his world ugly and red, surrounded him. 

He did want to be good, didn’t he?

“Wally,” he said, and he almost reached out. But he recalled the blood on his hands, the knife at his feet, the rifle on his back, and complete lack of recognition in the other man’s face. His friend did not know him anymore. 

Bitterness crept in, settling over his heart.

What comfort he had taken in knowing Wally existed, somewhere, living a better life, and already he had been forgotten.

_This was for the best._

Standing Bear turned away from the fair-haired man with eyes blue like endless skies. He was ready to face the battle that waited. The blooming apple tree vanished and the heat of the white bead cooled. 

The moment was ended, the moth's wings closed as Standing Bear took in his first steady breath since his mother's slaying.

“Don’t be shy,” Taro chortled, stepping in closer to where he stood, his back pressed into the canyon rock.

The man smelled of gunpowder and rot. 

“We can work with this,” the man who thought with his prick announced. “Can’t we boys? After all, town is more ‘n days right out, can't blame a man for gettin’ it where he can. If he’s hard up enough,” he said, and the men chuckled, amused with their foul humor.

These men, so confident and stupid in their blindness did not know to fear him, what he was becoming. Fortune’s fickle Wheel had turned its back on them and would never turn again in their lifetime. 

They were dead men, though they yet drew breath into their rotted lungs and past their tobacco-stained teeth. Little matter, they would learn. These men did not deserve _good_ Standing Bear decided having looked into their eyes and seen only their inexhaustible hunger in place of their spirit.

His family deserved blood for blood and he would not deny them it. 

_For mother,_ he thought, letting it wash through him, charging his blood. _For Little Fox,_ he thought, gritting his teeth as he felt the changing of his body, as his father's blood took hold. It made itself a home in the dark recess of his heart. _For Thunder Boy,_ he concluded as he unleashed himself. 

A great cry of vengeance rent the air as his mouth fell open, his skin stretched wide and unnatural around the sounds that fell out drawing all eyes to him. The crowd that had gathered lurched backward but it was too late.

Standing Bear moved among his enemies like a shadow that cut and where he went men died. He twisted Taro’s head from his shoulders with his bare hands, throwing it to the Mexican’s feet, his teeth bared in a sharp, feral grin.

“Am I pretty now?” he drawled, before splitting him open from throat to navel.

He swiveled to face the man who had complained about the state of his prick. They locked eyes and he let the man look his fill, at the blood and viscera that clung to his skin, unblinking and unafraid. There were many of them, but they were not enough against a being they possessed no understanding for. Half the men were running for their horses, leaving their companions in the dust. 

The man before him backpedaled, falling over his own feet, gibbering nonsense and broken recitations of the Lord’s Prayer. 

“Our Father who sits in heaven,” the man whispered, scrabbling and kicking up dirt as he used his arms to crawl backward. “Hollow be your name…” he muttered, trying to remember the words. “Your kingdom...will...be done...give us bread,” he paused, and when he paused so did Standing Bear.

The man stank of fear, and he let him stew as he slowly closed in on him.

“I do not think that is how it goes,” Standing Bear whispered, his voice a rasping growl.

“I think the part you are seeking is _‘deliver us from evil’_ is it not?” he asked, his voice still so low and calm.

“Christ! Deliver us from evil!” the man shouted, his eyes round with fear.

“Oh God,” he muttered, over and over.

“Your God does not speak to you tonight, I do” Standing Bear whispered, looking down at the man. “Did they beg? The children whose scalps are still wet with blood at your belt? As you beg now to your God, to me?” he asked.

The man closed his eyes, his mouth contorting in a scream as Standing Bear dealt the fatal blow. His Lord and His host of angels had deserted him that night as he bled from between his legs, unmanned in the minutes before death claimed him.

Standing Bears eyes glowed with the fire of a midnight sun, his image reflected in the eyes of dying men who gasped and groveled in the blood-soaked dirt, begging for mercy.

On that night, Standing Bear had none to give. 

He bathed in his enemies’ blood and his heart, in misery, howled like the wounded wolf his mother had named him for. His control was but a single thread of silk as he brought vengeance to the men who had come seeking trouble. He saw to it that Hawk Woman's dying wish was done and when he returned to himself fully alone among the bodies of the dead he mourned, for the dead and for himself. He died many deaths in that long, still moment beneath the cold light of a half-moon. The man who had been Standing Bear had unraveled; undone and made a stranger to himself. 

Crimson red dripped from his hand into the earth, which seemed to cry, weeping blood. His own face was not dry as tears and blood intermixed on the sharp lines of his face. It looked as if he were crying tears of blood.

Dead, she was dead. 

They were _all_ dead. 

Gone was the boy Howling Wolf. 

He had seen his friend Red Bear fall.

High Wolf was dead, too, same as the rest.

_Gone_ was the man who had loved Thunder Boy.

_Gone_ was the son of Swift Coyote. 

He had killed her, his own mother. He had become what White Star feared, the cursed _yee naagloshii_. He saw it now, glaring into the eyes reflected at him in the pool of muddy water -- the thing that they had feared. 

They were right, in the end.

_So be it._ Standing Bear looked around at the tangled mess of bodies and felt the darkness stirring, this time -- this time he untethered the threads that bound him. _So be it._ A long screaming wail cut through the silence and where there had stood a man with eyes burning like a midnight sun there was a creature who walked on all fours.

As a strong-limbed brown wolf, he tore apart all those who remained and dispatched those who still lingered on the road between life and death. He tasted blood, bitter, and copper on his wolf's-tongue and though he did not enjoy the taste he did not let it hold him back from the kill as he pounced upon the back of the man called Matt as he limped towards _RattleSnake Mountain_.

He bounded onto his back, pinning him to the dirt as he took the man's life. 

He took no pleasure in it, the blood madness receding.

Six men escaped, but he had their scent, and now there was nowhere they could run that he could not find them. He let them go, for now. There was always tomorrow; he now had all of time to meet out justice as he saw fit.

The brown wolf’s nose flared, enticed by the scent of so much fresh meat, but the man in him still reigned. _No_ , he thought and walked to where Little Fox and Swift Coyote were lying. He turned in three circles before lying down. Perhaps, he considered, never to rise again. Standing Bear did not know if death would have him but he considered it, as he lay beside his mother's corpse. 

_No,_ so spoke the spirit of the brown wolf that resided within the Medicine Bag he wore at his neck. 

Lame Bull had given it to him on his seventeenth birthday. There was a power to it that he had not felt before; it was strange but welcome. It felt like Autumn leaves as they slowly danced in the wind before coming to rest at the base of a tree trunk, something light that rested against the corner of his mind. It did not thrash like the darkness that now lay dormant within his chest. 

_You will not meet with death,_ the brown wolf reiterated. Its voice was harsh and abrupt, for it did not have pity for human weakness. _Live_ , it said and in his mind, he saw the sun rising in the west the same as it always would, just as bright and magical as ever. 

_Tomorrow will come and this too will pass,_ brown wolf promised with such conviction that Standing Bear almost believed. But then he was reminded; he was speaking to something within his own mind. It was not unlike the Voices, in that he recognized it as separate from himself. And yet he felt a connection, a tether that stretched between him and it. 

_Who are you?_ He asked, wondering if with the change he had also gone mad, speaking with spirits in his head.

_Now? I am forever part of you, I am brown wolf, not it, brown wolf, it said,_ soundly mildly annoyed with him. He felt its presence inside his mind, a brisk rustle, as it seemed to shake its fur.

He mentally shrugged. 

_Who are you? Since we are forever bound,_ the brown wolf asked of him in turn. Standing Bear saw with his mind's eye a thick ruff of brown fur and eyes that were almost golden in color. He was disturbed from his black grief by its unblinking gaze.

_I...am yee naagloshii...a...skinwalker,_ he confessed, shuddering even as the admittance crossed his thoughts. 

He had become what he feared most, a monster.

_Ah, but is that all?_ The brown wolf pressed, refusing to let the matter lie. As if it _\-- he, the wolf was distinctly male --_ knew something the man did not. 

_I do not know._

_Well, we have time. What name are you called by, skinwalker?_ The brown wolf asked, and though it did not cringe at the title, the man did. Withdrawing tighter into himself. 

_Skinwalker_ , he thought, very, very quietly. _Better to be dead than such as that_.

_Standing Bear,_ he replied, relieved when the brown wolf did not call him further on his wish for death over existence as what he was. 

_And?_ The brown wolf prodded, like a child poking a dying opossum, seeing if it will hiss and bare its fangs. He did not appreciate the prodding, and his response was snappish. 

_And what?_ He growled back.

The brown wolf huffed, tongue lolling in a wolfish grin as though pleased with itself.

_You can tell me, little skinwalker, for I am you, as you are now me,_ the brown wolf confessed, with a more kindly tone than its earlier rebuke.

[_He'amâhnee'ęstse_](http://www.cheyennelanguage.org/words/names/standsabove.wav). 

_Well met,_ [ _He'amâhnee'ęstse_ ](http://www.cheyennelanguage.org/words/names/standsabove.wav) _. You are yee naagloshii now, true, but do not forget Standing Bear and_ [ _He'amâhnee'ęstse_ ](http://www.cheyennelanguage.org/words/names/standsabove.wav) _, for they are strong and true-hearted._

_How can you say this knowing all I have done this night?_ He demanded, his ire rising at the brown wolf and its blind insistence in overlooking, or underestimating the ugliness of what he was. 

What he chose to become.

_Because...a wolf does not become leader of the pack in one day, nor does a man fall beyond worth in the passing of one night._

_Rest a while, and then find your feet, little skinwalker._

With those parting words the brown wolf’s presence faded out, it was there, curled up in the far corner of his mind but would speak to him no more. It had said all that _needed_ to be said Standing Bear reluctantly realized. The wave of grief that had been drowning him had receded to a deep coldness that lapped at his knees, he felt the tug pulling out to deep waters but he longer had the same burning desire to drown in the icy depths of grief.

_Life then,_ he decided, wondering if this was the higher beings meddling in his life just as they had meddled for Walter Longmire who without him and his white bead would now be dead. 

_Little matter,_ he decided, lying down to sleep beside his mother and Little Fox. She only faintly smelled of lavender now. He would bury her soon, but for now, he was too tired to move, every muscle in his body ached and his spirit fractured; what this morning was whole was now as tangled as a spider's web. 

That night, as the moon hung low in the sky he learned that beasts could cry when he felt the first sting of wolf-tears dampen his furred muzzle as he remembered what it was his mother would have said to him not so very long ago: 

_“What would be, would be_ , _my son.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note (cough) Novel: Dear Readers,
> 
> I could have spend an entire year, or at least a month, trying to get this chapter “right” but seeing as I want to keep my sanity, here it is, _“Soul’s Eclipse.”_ In this chapter Standing Bear’s moment of “becoming” has arrived as he is returned to his own time, joining his family only to see them die. 
> 
> Within the “skinwalker” lore so far as I could find it, it seemed to indicate that an act was needed, the slaying or otherwise harming of ones blood relatives. 
> 
> In order to “become” what he and those around him had feared from the beginning _[his fathers’ son – hint - the title]_ was this one act that Standing Bear would have never otherwise done. Except as the mercy of a “quick death” [the idea of which I introduced in _“When The Stars Align”_ and runs parallel to _“Soul’s Eclipse”_ where he engages in the opposite]. 
> 
> The tricky time travel part: This is the grim side of the Apple Tree Incident of 1981, _"To See Between Worlds"_ , from Standing Bear’s POV. For Standing Bear he just saw Walter, in 1991. And with everything going on for him I think readers might give him a break for not realizing the specifics? Also, Martha recognized him in the hospital hall, in 1991. 
> 
> Okay then! One last clarification that I hinted at but wasn’t sure if I nailed down: Swift Coyote, she did not make Standing Bear hold the knife, rather than do it herself, for no reason. She did not want him to die, as he would have if he had remained as he was: mostly human. Swift Coyote full well knew what a “skinwalker / yee naagloshii” was and what would likely trigger the blood curse for Standing Bear. The things she said about “love” to him were meant to be seen [after] as a mother knowing which buttons to press to get her son to act as required in order for him to live. 
> 
> In chapter 1, when she [Swift Coyote] is holding him [then Howling Wolf] as a child she and Little Fox both admitted that they could not be with him “always” and that they would have to love him enough for it to last. Here it is, readers, the final parting of the ways. 
> 
> By a mothers love, Standing Bear lives.  
> By a mothers love, Standing Bear as he once was, dies.
> 
> Enjoy?
> 
> PS: A critical nemesis has entered the narrative. 
> 
> With 11,000 words contained here I don't think that gives away to terribly much. 🤣
> 
> _Questions, comments, & queries, are most welcome. _
> 
> Sources:
> 
> The wheel of fortune -- middle ages mode of thought
> 
> https://www.literature-no-trouble. com/the-wheel-of-fortune/#:~:text=The%20Wheel%20of%20Fortune%20The%20concept%20of%20fate,Fortunae%20%22%29%20represents%20the%20unpredictable%20nature%20of%20fate .
> 
> Owls - Native American Belief
> 
> https://www. powwows. com/concerning-owls/


	9. INTERLUDE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1991 and Walter Longmire had just woken in the hospital. He tried to recall the events of the night and found that most of it was blank. He didn’t know how his Good Samaritan found him. Or how he had managed to carry his dead weight so very far. As Walter lay in bed he was reminded of impossible things; his imaginary friend Howling Wolf. Deep down he knew discerning fact from fiction about that night would remain a mystery. All he knew was he owed a man named Standing Bear his life. 
> 
> _AND: Teaser for what lies ahead in the present._

#  _**Impossible Things** _

#  _**Mercy Hospital, Wyoming: 1991** _

“Hey, Standing Bear, get in here!”

__

“Lower your damn voice, Omar!” Walt growled. “There are other people on the other side of this wall, people who need peace and quiet.”

__

“And if I don’t whatcha gonna do, yank out the IV’s those nice looking ladies put in your over-caffeinated veins? Huh? You gonna hop after me on one leg?” Omar snarked, grinning wide and unabashed. 

__

Walt grunted and flopped back down on the hospital bed. 

__

“Besides, I thought you might want to see your hero before he bolts. I swear, he looked at this place as if he’d never stepped foot in a hospital. A real back-woods Indian, you’d like ‘em.”

__

“Indian?” Walt asked, his head jerking toward Omar, skittering over the open doorway. 

__

“Don’t tell me you were out the whole time he was lugging your sorry carcass around? Shit. You were, weren’t you?” 

__

Omar whistled, shaking his head. 

__

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch you know? I wouldn’t even haul your sorry ass across town. He said he knew you -- but I didn’t have time to pin down if he meant that he knew you or just _of_ you, legendary Absaroka High jock turned deputy.”

__

“Huh, did he give a name?” Walt asked, nervously licking his lips. He remembered...something….there had been a man out in the shack with one; someone other than the man who shot him and left him to die, and Dumb and Dumber who had been left behind to make sure he was _dead_.

There had been a familiarity to the face he recalled hovering over him and he had been handled with care; like a friend might have done.

Maybe.

It couldn't be, could it? Howling Wolf? That was impossible, the Cheyenne Indian boy had been someone he made up when he was a lonely kid.

That was what his ma, dad, and therapist -- that one time dad consented to take him -- had promised.

It was natural, making up people when there was a lack of companionship in the real world.

__

It had all been dreamed up in his head. 

__

Right?

__

“Oh, now you’re interested?” Omar snorted walking to the door and sticking his head out into the hallways. “Miss, did you happen to see a, uh, Indian out here, about so high, dark hair, army green winter coat?” he asked the first nurse he saw striding down the aisle.

__

“I’m sorry sir, I haven’t seen anyone.”

__

“Alright, thanks.”

__

Omar shrugged coming back into the room.

“Well, looks like you took too long to open those pretty blues of yours Walter -- he’s gone. Rabbited.” Omar spread his hands in a _‘what’s a person to do’_ gesture as he eased back into the hard-backed chair meant for family and visitors. 

__

“Said his name was Standing Bear, but that’s all I got.”

__

“I don’t know anyone called Standing Bear,” Walt admitted and all the hope that had been building up in his chest collapsed. 

__

It had all been in his head. 

__

Of course it had been.

He winced, thinking about how far down the rabbit-hole he had almost let himself fall. There had been a lot of crazy attached to his made-up friend: a magic rock and a time and place different from his own, the ability to speak bits and pieces of a language he had never learned.

__

That was the kind of talk that landed a person in a mental ward looking at ink blots and talking about their feelings. _Howling Wolf_ was just an imaginary friend he had dreamed up; but then he got older and left those imaginings behind. Whoever it was that saved his life was a _real_ flesh and blood man who had taken the time to carry his dead weight a very, very long way. 

__

He didn’t even know them; and now he never would. He didn't like not getting that chance to shake hands with whoever had done it, he'd carried people through the snow a time or two. It wasn't as easy as it looked on the small-screen. 

__

“I’m a little surprised, I offered to buy lunch and drinks tomorrow.”

__

Walt laughed, a dry chuckle that lit up his eyes.

__

“Well that explains it -- he didn’t want to see your ugly mug tomorrow, or is it already _today_?” Walt mused, shooting his question to Omar who shrugged.

__

“I do wish I could have sprung for lunch -- just the once,” Omar said becoming serious. “He saved your life Walter -- I thought...when you didn’t wake up? Well…” Omar coughed into his fist.

__

“I didn’t though,” Walt replied and they sat, Omar in his chair, and Walt in the hospital bed until Martha flew into the room like a hurricane. Falling into his space, bringing a rush of lavender, magnolia, and _Joe Malone_ perfume with her. 

__

“Walter? Oh my God, what happened? Who shot you?” Martha asked as she reached for his hand, firmly entwining their fingers. 

__

Walt grinned, he couldn't help himself. Just _looking_ at her made his heart to a little jump inside. But he couldn't help teasing her, just a little.

“Yes. Perkins. And Perkins.”

__

“ _Walter Eugene Longer_!” Martha scolded.

__

“Well, I’ll leave you to Martha’s tender mercies,” Omar chortled as he backed out of the room. “A pleasure, as always, Martha.”

__

Walt tried to sit up and ended up moving his leg in a way that it didn’t much care for. He groaned, and opted for remaining still. 

__

“Martha, sweetheart, I’m alright,” Walter said. “Yes, I got shot but I’m okay. Perkins got the drop on me this time. I was stupid -- dropped my guard. It won’t happen again.”

__

“I had better not,” Martha signed. “Cady needs he daddy, she’s been asking _‘where's dad’_ all night. Don’t worry -- Ruby’s watching her at the house. She’s fine.”

Walt didn’t say anything to that; he couldn't make the promises that Martha wanted to hear. That he would never get shot, that this would never happen again. A body was bound to pick up a little lead, eventually, if they worked a law enforcement job for long enough. 

__

“Martha? Do you know anyone by the name Standing Bear?” Walt asked. “Omar said that’s the name my rescuer gave him.”

__

“Rescuer? You had to be rescued, Walt, what happened out there?” Martha asked, her grip on his fingers verging on painful. He didn’t mind it too much, it hurt less than his leg, and it was a marker of her devotion that she didn’t even realize how tightly she was clinging to him.

__

“Honestly, I don’t know. I remember getting shot a bag over my head, a long ride, and being tossed into a shack. It was cold, remember that. But the rest...I don’t know.”

__

But he did remember someone there, talking to him and it was that voice, smooth and calm as any river he’d ever swum that had held him tethered when death had lapped at the corners of his mind. 

__

It would have been so easy -- letting go. 

__

But he could have sworn he heard Ho-na-nist-to, _Howling Wolf_ , speak. 

__

And he said he was not allowed to die.

__

But that was impossible.

__

Howling Wolf was not real, right?

__

Martha looked awful, and not the kind of bad that stemmed from worry. There was something more there; something she wanted to share turning itself around in circles in her head. He knew that look by now. He knew his wife. 

__

“Are you okay, sweetheart? Should I be calling someone for _you_ \-- you look awful pale” Walt said, turning his attention to his wife, taking in the pallor of her face. 

__

The jitters that had her bouncing her leg against the bed. 

__

It was more than the usual worry that had her brows furrowed and her nose cutely scrunched. Not, this wasn’t the usual, which he had seen before. This might be his first gunshot wound, but there had been other close shaves in the past. 

__

“I’m not so bad off, I can spring myself in a few hours, promise.”

__

“It’s nothing…” Martha said, already dismissing whatever was on her mind, her blond pony-tail swishing with the movement of her head. 

__

He took in the state of her, the clothes that she had clearly thrown on in the dark, a comfortable blue t-shirt that was one size too big, the cotton pajama pants with little rodeo horses decorating the fabric, no make-up, and what he called her _sleep-friz_ hair. 

__

She’d rushed out in a hurry, leaving Cady with Ruby.

__

She tried on a smile. “You just need to get better.”

__

“I will, now tell me,” Walt urged, gently tugging at their interlaced fingers so that she would sit at the edge of his bed. 

__

“I saw him,” Martha said, her cheeks turning bright pink as she said it. Like she had seen some celebrity in the hall? Except Martha didn’t care about that sort of thing, not like the new generation and their Meg Ryan, DiCaprio, and Pitt obsessions. That ruled out some celebrity-heartthrob but her face was definitely lit up, now that she was talking. 

__

There was a fire sparkling in her eye -- the same one that made him fall in love not so terribly long ago.

__

“Him who?” Walt asked. He propped himself forward on the bed, this felt like conversation that required sitting up. 

__

“Him! The Cheyenne apparition from 1981, that _him_.”

__

“Honey…”

__

Martha blew out a breath, nibbling on her lip as she gave a small shrug. 

__

“I know, okay? I know. Impossible.”

__

“I mean, here? Really?” Walt asked. “Are you sure? There are actual living Cheyenne Indians in Absaroka County,” he teased, trying to lighten the tension in the room. It fell flat and now she was looking at him with that little frown and disappointed eyes. 

__

He hated that look. 

__

“Alright, alright,” Walt back peddled. “Say you saw him...somehow...did you talk to him? Did he talk to you?” Walt asked, going into detective mode for the moment. Hanging up his doubts as he pursued lines of questioning he could untangle. 

__

If Martha and this person had exchanged dialogue maybe he could bring this down to something more plausible than an apparition they had both seen when they were young and stupid in love beneath the apple tree on her parents old property.

__

“He didn’t say anything Walt -- he went the opposite direction, kinda fast actually. It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so damn annoying.”

__

Walt sighed, there was nothing there he could work with. No lead to follow. No trail. Once again it was an impossible situation, but this time it was only Martha who had seen the... _man_ ?... _apparition_ ?... _ghost_? And in the hospital halls no less. 

__

As he lay in the hospital bed he was reminded of the bitter coldness of the shack and the voice that followed soon after the burning heat of warm skin and a hot fire. His limbs being rubbed, aching pin-pricks as feeling returned, and an uncanny sense that despite the cold and the gunshot he was safe and everything would be _alright_. 

__

Deep down Walt knew discerning fact from fiction about that night would remain a mystery. All he knew for certain was he owed an Indian man named Standing Bear his life. 

A man, he would later find, that did not exist. 

__

Not on the Rez and not _anywhere_ in Absaroka County. Or Sheridan, Cumberland, and Cheyenne. He gave up at _Cheyenne_. There were some people who were just too good at disappearing to find if they didn’t _want_ to be found.

__

#  _**First Impressions (Don't) Matter** _

#  _**Absaroka, Wyoming: 2008** _

One year after his wife's death Walt Longmire would walk into the _Red Pony_ , tired and dusty from wrangling robbers, runaway horses, and his own aching heart. The bar tendered would pour him a drink, whiskey straight and he’d down it on one gulp. 

__

Walt was a Rainer man and everyone and their dog knew it but there were days that called for exceptions. This was one of them. He slammed it down, the glass clinking when it hit the counter, and asked for another. While his third drink of the afternoon was being poured he noticed that the man keeping him well liquored wasn’t Jonas Black Kettle. 

He was younger than the old bartender, for one, and not as portly at the belly and jowls. He wore blue lumber-jack flannel over a black t-shirt tucked into blue jeans with a distinctive Native style belt. Clean cut features, sharp, faintly slanted eyes, and a smirk that curled his mouth in a hard grin. 

__

He wasn’t showy, but he stood out, and it didn’t bother him any doing so. If it did he would have called him on his frank appraisal. He didn’t. The man just poured until his shot was near to overflowing, a fact for which he was grateful.

__

“You’re new,” he said.

__

The stranger’s grin widened, white teeth showing for a second. He flicked his eyes towards his badge, plain as day and twice as obvious, pinned to his jacket. 

__

“How very astute, _sheriff_.”

__

“Where’s Jonas? Isn’t this usually his shift?” Walt asked, his stare neither friendly nor combative as he eyes the man across him. He didn’t like change and going from old Jonas Black Kettle with his kind wrinkles, and loud laughter to _this_ \-- cool, almost _coldly_ efficient service -- was definitely a change. 

__

He had reason to be wary of it; and today was no exception. His ma wasn’t always right, life had proven that when it took Martha. Change wasn’t always good, sometimes it just came in like a storm and left the house a wreck and killed the family dog.

__

The bartender, paused, wiping his hands on the rag resting against his shoulder. “Jonas and Ada Black Kettle have retired, if that is what you wondered, sheriff. By now they are enjoying the view from _La Defense_...in Paris.”

__

“Paris? I was talking to them two days ago.” Walt couldn't hold back his shock, it made his voice loud during the calm lull of lunchtime drinkers and quiet drunks humming to themselves by the jukebox. 

__

A few people turned to look, seeing nothing interesting they turned back to their own internal woes.

__

“Hmm. A lot can change in two days. Or in one.”

__

“You sure seem to know a lot for the new guy in town -- they leave you in charge of the bar?” Walt asked, suspiciously eyeing the bartender. 

__

“In a manner of speaking, yes, they did leave me in charge.”

__

Walt stifled a grunt of annoyance as the man's non-answer. 

__

“I am the new owner of this fine establishment.” The bartender decided to explain; maybe because he took pity on a man who was drinking when he definitely shouldn't be or maybe it was because he was the new guy in town and it was the sheriff burying the burn of living without his dead wife in alcohol. Either way, he got his answer. 

Walt’s jaw dropped comically wide when he heard it, too. 

__

“They sold the place?”

__

“Yes, and will spend the rest of their lives in comfort, now if you will excuse me,” the bartender said and abruptly left him to stare at the bottom of his shot-glass alone while he poured up something cheap-off-the-shelf for Bob who was three chairs down the line.

__

He watched the man, the way he moved and talked with customers. Walt noted that the bartender didn’t seem quite so distant, not with the way he was leaning forward to chat with Arlene and her husband John who ordered burgers to-go, they were smiling right back like they wanted to take _him_ home, too.

He wasn’t meddling, it was none of his affair, but he noticed and it put him off now that he could see it.

__

It hadn’t been _that_ bad of a first impression, had it? It might not have been the worst, but boy howdy, it surely hadn't been the best either. He winced, swirling the last bit of his drink. _He_ wasn’t at his best, that was for damn sure. Hadn’t been since...well. Martha. And that was the ugly truth. He grimaced downing the last of the whiskey even though he knew he shouldn’t. He was on the job. But, well. He wasn’t at his best. 

__

_Just this once_ , Walt promised more to Martha than to himself or anyone else.

He studiously didn’t look at the bartender with the hard grin, who was exchanging numbers on a napkin with the woman _and_ her husband, and if he felt the winds of change blowing he told himself it was all in his head. So there was a new man in Absaroka, and he didn’t get the impression that he was a fan, so what. He could stomach a little cold-shouldering, hell, he better be able to.

He’d dealt with worse on the job.

He’d never been the best with people.

Looked like _that_ wasn’t going to change any time soon.

__

Walt stuffed his hat back on his head and walked back onto the street. It was cold out and he turned up his collar against the wind. He wasn’t sure if he liked the new management anyways; but that was alright. There was time to figure that out. 

__

First thing he’d do when he got his case wrapped up was track down the Black Kettles to make sure there wasn’t anything underhanded going on regarding the sale of their bar. They were a nice couple and he genuinely hoped the new bar-owner wasn’t lying. And that had nothing to do with liking the curve of his smile when he was flirting with Arlene. It had hinted at something softer...not that he gave a damn. 

__

Three steps out he realized he hadn’t even gotten the man's name.

Some other day would have to do. Right now he had a killer to catch. The damn news press, always getting under foot and in the way. _Vampyre of Absaroka_ was what the _Daily Star_ were calling the psycho and the news-hounds had lapped it up like sugar. It wouldn’t be long before panic would set in and folks who had open-door policies took to using bolts and chains, latching the windows and loading for bear.

He hated it when the media coined them those damned corny names; it dishonored the victims who remained nameless and faceless. Another stat nailed to the boards. 

It wasn’t like the old days when these kinds of people were called out for what they were: _murderers_. Time was, when a brand like that would stick like flies to shit. Now, well, now they got sixty seconds of fame and a book deal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: Dear Readers,
> 
> Here is a short "interlude" and peak into the small moments with Walt and Martha; this was not really planned but a query was made about what was going on with them and an idea struck. So here's a snippet of what's happened in the immediate aftermath of Standing Bear's time-traveling rescue. 
> 
> Here is a "teaser" of what lies ahead for Walt in 2008. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Dates are subject to change (sorry).


	10. Fragmentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1725; Standing Bear was more alone than he had ever been in his life and he did not even have the surety of his identity to hold onto.
> 
> _Fragmentation_ ; the process or state of breaking or being broken into small or separate parts.

#  _**Black Canyon, Wyoming: 1725** _

Standing Bear came to his feet, all four of them, suddenly. Merged with the spirit of the brown wolf, whose greater range of senses far surpassed those of an ordinary man, allowed him an edge. It was strange, but not unwelcome. The land was brimming with noises if he listened hard enough; life went on even in the _Black Canyon_. He had heard something…beyond the chirp of crickets, wings taking flight throughout the darkening night. Had such little time passed? It felt like hours ago that he was cresting the hill, the only just setting below the horizon. It must have – the sky was blanketed in darkness and the stars were shining.

He could not tell if the darkness was only within his mind, or if the stars really were dimmer as he cast a baleful glance to the world above. The fighting was done but he remained as he was; fully merged with the brown wolf who did not begrudge him his presence or bother with him at all when there was nothing which called his – its – attention. He welcomed the reprieve of company, even within the confines of his own spirit and body. It was still unusual to him; knowing that there was a thread which connected him to the brown wolf whose spirit he could call upon. It was also welcome to know that when he did, it would come forth as his summons. 

It was like waking into a dream, a wall of fog had settled in and he felt numb, it was better this way. The wolf, whose clear view of the world and his -- _its_ \-- place made it easier to set aside thoughts of the _Red Road_ his family traveled. 

Brown wolf knew the absence of pack, mate, and pups; for this reason he was as patient as his nature allowed. This was a time for dealing with fortune’s ever turning wheel; misfortune had been his this night. His very life was won by means of innocent blood spilled. Brown wolf _understood_ , and it was a small comfort to know his emotions were acknowledged. Even the creatures of the earth and sky understood the changing of seasons and the empty spaces where once loved ones had once occupied. Brown wolf understood and Standing Bear clung to that, staring into the slowly setting in night wondering what it was that had shaken him from his uneasy rest.

Brown wolf lingered close to the surface waiting for his call. He heard nothing with his wolf ears but held his breath as he flicked them this way and that. Nothing. Whatever it was that had dragged him from sleep had fallen silent. Standing Bear heaved a heavy sigh that shuddered down his haunches as he laid down his head to wait. If there were something near, it would make noise again and this time he would be ready.

He ached with the knowledge that he was more alone than he had ever been in his life; surrounded by corpses and the shadow of what once was. There was the barest of threads stretched thin between the man he had been and the man that he had become. He feared himself, what choices did that leave him? When at any moment the blood madness could rise up. It was a disturbing thing, this new darkness, that crested over his spirit in a wall of black, desiring death and destruction and blood. It was satisfied with the killing of his enemies but all it would have been the slightest provocation to turn on friend and foe alike. He could feel it like venom wriggling below his skin; its desire to indulge.

He steeled his will and turned to the Creator for aid. 

_No more blood tonight, please, no more, my spirit cannot take more senseless death and blood_.

Standing Bear had seen all he could stomach, it matted his fur, his paws, and human skin was embedded beneath his canine-like paws. The deep fog of before was beginning to lift – his body shaking as if he were reliving the moment all over again. The moment he would spend eternity trying to forget.

_“If you ever loved me as a son should love his mother, you will do this. If ever you loved as a human boy loves his mother, you will do this.”_

Standing Bear choked down a sob as the memory rose, unbidden, to the forefront. He did love her – he did! She had to have known? How could she not know when there were times when she was all that was good and whole in his small world. She was the only light and only touch that did not bring harm. She had been his shield against the worst of the sunning – a sunny smile to distract his young mind, a long, long story created and told _only_ for him when he was cast away from the campfire where the other boys and girls were told winter-tales. 

She knew – right? 

He felt his doubt like a physical ache that constricted this throat and sickened his stomach, a keening whine escaping into the stillness of the night. He hated it – the weakness of the sound. But he could not stop – not the sound of the emotion that was pulling at his limbs. He wished to lay down and sleep, just for a time, and forget everything. But he could not. His grief was a relentless thing, crawling through the back of his mind raking open still bleeding wounds.

It allowed him no rest -- not in dreams nor his waking hours.

His family, now lost to him forever, lived only in memories. _His_ memories.

If he did not remember them they would become forgotten. There would never be stories told around the fire through the mouths of their ancestors telling of Hawk Woman and surly Red Bear, and straight-faced Soaring Hawk who doted on his cantankerous wife Tall Woman. She was dead, not more than three feet away, a red stain over her heart, her child unmoving in her arms with his small tuft of black hair torn by the scalpers.

The scalpers had joined the family in death. Their limbs scattered around the canyon in so many pieces that they would never be whole in the otherworld.

Dead. Everyone he knew was dead. All who had known them, and him, were now walking the _Red Road_. Except him. He lived -- a thing which he still had not made peace. He carried within him their names and stories; they became his privilege and his burden. He could not release them even though remembrance stung like snake-fangs; buried deep. He could not even pass these things along. The spilling of his mother's blood changed everything; he had committed a heinous crime of a kin-slaying. This was his punishment, being like his father, becoming a skinwalker.

There was no going back.

He was a skinwalker now and no tribe would take him as he was or suffer him to live long. Hawk Women's winter-time stories, when he had joined such tellings at 14 years old, had never been less than brutally honest. If skinwalkers made themselves too much of a nuisance, Medicine Men from all the clans would band together and fight with it until it or they were dead. 

Had his mother know what she damned him to, with the taking of her life? He suspected she had known what would happen – even as she must have known the depths of his love – she was too clever to be ignorant of these things. He chose to believe that she had simply wanted him to live no matter what the cost; he could not blame her for her actions no matter how he tried. He could not turn his heart against her nor did he wish to – she was his mother. She would always be his mother, he could not hate her, even if she had knowingly set his feet on the path of becoming like his father. 

Hate would only further set him on the wrong roads. Far better to let that go and hold onto the love which preserved his life; whatever that life might prove to be. He was the sole survivor it seemed, and he despaired at the thought of all the collective knowledge that had been lost this day. 

There would be none to hear these things about his clan from his lips. Who would stop to speak with a monster? His heart sank further in the cavern of his chest. The brown wolf had left him alone to his thoughts. 

Standing Bear sensed an underlying disapproval from the spirit in how he was letting his thoughts rule him but it said nothing. Standing Bear was too numb for tears to fall and too tired to do anything but stare into the middle distance trying, and failing, not to think at all.

The world was muted, buried within the brown wolf's spirit, and it's simple clarity; but even here he could feel the knowledge of his loneliness creeping into his mind. 

He had always thought...he had imagined that he might wear out the rest of his days with Thunder Boy for company when the nights grew cold, a distraction from the loudness of his thoughts, and his wonderful laughter, and handsome crooked nose…

_Enough_ , he scolded himself, forcefully shutting down his train of thoughts. 

He looked around, resigned and _curious_ wholly against this will about what had startled him.

His heart was so heavy that it seemed to weigh down his limbs as though he were bound in invisible ropes that pulled him into the earth. He did not resist the pull as much as he knew he should until he heard the rustle of movement, somewhere off in the distance.

Strange, that for a man who now had power beyond his imaginings he had never felt more weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> I've decided to break the "aftermath" of the Black Canyon massacre into smaller pieces after a long time of wrestling with the entity of what I have. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, & queries are most welcome!!!!


	11. a standing bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the year 1725 and Standing Bear slogged through his grief, a fresh wound laid across his heart, when he heard sounds of life. It was good to be needed, by anyone, for any reason, after the events of the evening. 
> 
> To be a Standing Bear, once more.

#  _**Wyoming: 1725** _

His wolf-ears flicked again pointed straight ahead as he caught at the faintest whisper of noise. This, whatever it might prove to be, was not an unwelcome distraction. His rest, short though it was, remained troublesome and chaotic. His hurt lingered too close to the surface. It would not let him be in peace. 

It was little wonder either, for the scent of death was strong in the canyon. Standing Bear, his muzzle tipped to the sky, breathed in the air scenting for something beyond the blood and bodies. Standing Bear warily looked around seeking the noise that had rudely jostled him from his slumber and tumbling thoughts. A much needed reprieve from this waking nightmare the whole night had become at the setting of the sun. Darkness reigned, and he could feel it in his bones, the wrongness of the earth. The air itself tastes like ash and smoke in his mouth. Slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration he took first one step then two towards the small copse of trees fifty yards in the distance. 

It sprung from that direction, the noise, and he was curious. If he were a different kind of man he would have ignored it. Maybe he would have laid his head down to sleep, hoping that the night would end and the sun glaring mighty and high in the sky when he woke in the morning. If he were not the man he was he might let his own grief settle deep into his bones and blind him to all else. But he was not a different kind of man. He was a Standing Bear, no matter what else came after. It was almost a welcome reprieve being _needed_. By someone, by anyone. Anything to save him frown his thoughts. 

Before sunset he had been a man and now he was decidedly _not_.

_"You were born of a monster -- a skinwalker, Standing Bear! There is no escaping this. Someday you will turn,”_ these had been White Stars words, once upon a time. It was only after his death that they had become prophecies. 

White Star would have been vindicated against Hawk Woman and his mother had the warrior lived to see morning. 

_A shame he did not get his final say_ , Standing Bear thought. 

He sighed, knowing such thoughts were ill-times and pointless. The brown wolf stirred a gentle presence brushing against his mind, a touchless caress, soothing the bite from his inner wounds. A grunted huff left his muzzle, puffing out into the air in a plume of fog, and he narrowed his eyes. Thinking would do him no good. 

Not when death still held such appeal. 

He would need to learn to save himself from now on. There would be no more distractions from Thunder Boy who even now lay dead somewhere within this canyon. Time to rise and see what was the matter – only the living made noises like the one he heard. Better to attend to that. Anything to escape relieving his losses as he counted the slow passing of time. Somewhere, there might be a person he could help.

It was all he had ever wanted.

To be helped, to be useful – and good. 

Though everything had gone so terribly wrong in the end hadn’t it? 

He kept his nose to wind, waiting for the noise to cut through the silence. The wendigo’s of the canyon bluffs were infamous for trickery and deceit; he would not rush into the dark without thought. 

Brown wolfs' hackles rose, and his muzzle curled back to expose pearl-white fangs. Ears shoved forward, staining to hear, tail held high as the scent of someone in distress wafted into his nose, one was of a female, but there was also another, which was distinctly male, heavy with sweat, grime, and musk. Not a wendigo, definitely not a wendigo, but a _man_. His attention fully grasped he listened hard widening his senses to almost painful degrees, the chirp of crickets a shrill annoyance, the distant inhuman wailing coming from the canyon cliffs dashed against his ears like a rifle discharge. It was then that he realized it was more than just one person hidden along the trail that stretched before him. 

The scent of the man was not familiar but the girl was. He knew her and the image of what he was picking up on began to fall into place. 

_Ah, there,_ the brown wolf instructed as the noise came again, small muffled whimpers. Fabric tearing. Slender limbs pinned to the dirt. 

_It is a young one in trouble_ , the brown wolf said catching the scent carried on by low winds cutting through the narrow gorge. It opened up into a small clearing with a scattering of trees twenty yards ahead. 

_Dancing Fawn is close, Still Water, even closer,_ Standing Bear explained, his heart kicking hard in his chest. They were not all dead. At least two women, daughters of Hawk Woman, had survived.

The brown wolf made a coughing sound like laughter. 

_Fawn is tasty, but hardly a meal, too small._

He did not find humor in brown wolf’s words. Not when his control was frayed, a tattered overcoat that let in the cold. He sensed that the dark thing below the surface was quiet and sated, gorged on blood and death to the point of bloating. Not a threat at the present, so long as it remained unprovoked.

_It?_

Or _him_ ?

It was all such a tangled web that he had a hard time discerning what was left of the man he had been and the creature he had become. It was _still_ and would remain so for the foreseeable future. He hoped. Still, he did not know the boundaries between him and _it_. Would it lie still and docile at his command? A tamed beast, called to the hand by a firm whistle? Would it rise to join the commotion and rip the limbs of his enemies? Standing Bear did not know the answer to these questions and it made him cautious. 

He hesitated to approach Still Water, warring with questions to which he possessed no answers, but the brown wolf would not allow him to hesitate for more than a second. It was just as well. He could not look the other way. 

_Little skinwalker, if you do not wish her ill, do not do her ill,_ brown wolf said gruff and cross with him. He flinched at the reprimand. 

Brown wolf was correct. There was no time for this. 

Still Water was suffering – this could not be allowed to continue. Still Water needed his help; and he would give it.

_Better you than...well...better you_ , brown wolf said, bringing a swift end to their internal debate.

_Have a little self-trust, you are a Standing Bear, be one for this small-one._

Standing Bear found that by their own volition his paws carried him forth in all haste. The brown wolf helped him to track the sounds of distress he heard, with scenting and keen hearing he dashed forward. He had been buried too deep in his own head and heart to hear it before and castigated himself for this added fault, another brick laid upon the shattered debris of his spirit.

The blood madness from before receded, though his fur was still blood splattered, leaving him stinking of death the same as every other story he had ever heard told of the hated skinwalkers. 

The sound came again. Yes, he heard it, now that he had lowered the volume to the screams of the dying that still echoed within his head. Final moments of Red Bear, High Wolf, Swift Coyote, and so very many others; all crystalized in brutal clarity that would haunt his waking dreams for years to come. He set all that aside with a will, they were dead, and the dead needed nothing from the living.

There, there it was.

A girl, with a heart like a rabbit, hands flailing in the dead autumn leaves. 

There, also. 

A man, grunting, groaning, accompanied by the wet slap of flesh on flesh.

With understanding followed rage, hot and furious as he tore off after the sound, tracking by the scent of man and the soft female cries of a young woman. He imagined a sweaty palm silencing her cries earlier in the night and his anger grew. His body was a streak of tempered strength and brown fur lashing through the air as he sprung to motion.

_Hands are needed_ , he said and the brown wolf spirit receded. 

He was Standing Bear, the man, once again when he landed in a tightly controlled crouch behind the man. It had occurred to him to tear his head from his neck with his wolf jaws but he resisted the temptation. 

It would frighten Still Walter needlessly, and risk waking the darkness within that for now slept.

The mans’ beige trousers were tangled down at his knees and Still Waters skirt had been shoved to her hips, its fabric torn by rough handling.

Her expression was eerily blank, it did not seem as though she had noticed him yet though Standing Bear came upon the man from behind. He grasped the man by the back of his neck as he towed him off the girl, careful not to do her further damage. 

The man wriggled in his grasp, as fish on a line bound for the cooks pot, his eyes wide and round with shock. He had a sharp angular face, like a rat, with gray whiskers and beady eyes. 

Standing Bear observed the man for a long slow moment which seemed to last far longer than it did, letting the man see the death he had sown when he looked into his eyes.

The darkness within Standing Bear rose to the surface and looked _back_.

The man began screaming, terrified beyond logic and reason, and well he ought to, Standing Bear mused. He did not know what waited beyond the veil for such men, but he did not suppose it was pleasant. He let the man shriek and gibber while Still Water watched. It was important, allowing her to see her _human_ monster become a trembling wreck before meeting with death.

“Wait, wait – no” Rat Man said, spittle flying and his arms flailing, as if he thought his words mattered to Standing Bear, who was like a brother to the girl he had defiled. 

Standing Bear calmly observed Still Water, who was already regaining her senses and shaking out her skirts pale and ashen. She looked at the man as he writhed in Standing Bear's iron-clad grasp, it was pointless struggling and all three of them knew it. Her mouth tightened to a thin white line of disgust. Still Water locked eyes with her rapist and nodded to Standing Bear -- a sharp, curt bob of her head that told him what she desired as she wiped at the tears still wet on her cheeks.

Standing Bear dipped his head in acknowledgment of her request and snapped Rat Mans’ neck like a feeble twig.

She watched, her eyes wide and glassy, and he stared back nodding to her again before throwing the corpse to the side like a rotted carcass.

Still Water, daughter to Hawk Woman, was avenged. Death was all he had to offer and it would seem he was very good at its deliverance. He backed away, not wishing to be seen just now -- covered in blood and tissue matter. He was also naked, and she had just had a man on top of her taking her maidenhead by force. He lacked shame, not inconsideration for her plight.

“Please, please don’t go so soon -- help me look for survivors,” Still Water said, righting her clothes as she climbed to her feet, unsteady but fully upright.

She was a strong woman, Hawk Woman’s daughter. She was already thinking of how best to help others when she was still wet from her rapist’s seed between her legs. He knew that the whole truth probably had not yet sunk in yet, that her family was dead and the wrong that had been done to her here below the shadow of _Black Canyon_. The consequences she might still face, and the choice she would then be forced to make. The same one his mother had been forced to make when she found her belly growing large with a monster's offspring. 

Still Water had not thought of these things. But she would, in time. Maybe _then_ he would have found something that was note trite and empty to say to her. 

“Wash yourself, Still Water, if there are others to be found I will find them and bring them to you,” Standing Bear said, not unkindly as he tried to shape his mouth into something resembling a smile. 

It hurt even to try, but he did. 

He gestured back in the direction from which he had come, among the dead there would be many provisions, some of which they could pilfer for themselves. “I am certain you will find canteens among the dead.” 

She swallowed, her hair swaying as she dipped her head in agreement to his words, but she did not begin moving. Her eyebrows were drawn tight, fighting back a fresh wave of tears, and her hand clutched at her clothes. She made for a sad sight, thumbs rubbing in circles as she folded her arms around herself, and her chin quivering. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to offer her someone to hold onto as she cried but the moment he made an attempt to approach she flinched and backed away. 

He tried very hard not to take it personally. He was dealing with his own doubts, circling like a mass of ravens cawing and cackling about his short-coming, which made it difficult to swallow. She was nursing her own hurts, and there was precious little he could give her except space. 

_And time_ , brown wolf finished. _With time all wounds are healed, some will scar, but the weeping wounds will close up and the skin will harden. This is the way of life._

Brown wolf was right; but he knew full well the words were not meant for Still Waters alone. Standing Bear did not try to offer comfort to her again though his heart broke for her pain; and her heavy sobs echoed loud in his ears. 

He told himself that she needed space and privacy to grieve and backed away. Standing Bear left her knowing he had nothing to give. In truth, he had nothing of _himself_ left to offer. He should not even be so near to them, being what he was, he did not know that it was safe. Once he left Still Waters’ line of sight he became the brown wolf and her cries became even louder to his keen ears.

They ate at him but he did not turn back to face her.

The brown wolf grumbled wordlessly, but did not speak. 

Yet. 

Brown wolf would, though, he knew. 

_I do not know what to say, what words to offer to her, and besides that my very presence disturbs her right now._ Standing Bear confessed with a heavy, inward, sigh. _If I cannot find the words for myself, how am I supposed to find them for her?_

_The point is to try. Do not pretend that you do not know this. Will you let your own hurt be so great that you refuse to mend the hurts of others?_ Brown wolf chided. 

Standing Bear grit his teeth, his hand gripping at a small pine jutting from the rock. It was a small whisper of life in a place that stank of death, to see its small trunk and almost barren branches beginning its slow ascent towards the sky. That was the marvel of trees, they always grew upright and strong, always striving for the lights of the stars. 

_That tree is not all that lives. Still Water is alive because of you. She will recover and from her others will live._

_Because of you._

_This is not a small thing. In every ending there is born a new beginning._

_You are right, of course, and I will soon become thoroughly sick of your wisdom, brown wolf,_ Standing Bear recouped. Curled within his mind and spirit the brown wolf huffed, mocking laughter echoing throughout, and said nothing more. This suited Standing Bear fine for his rebuke had stung deeply.

His foot tangled in the limbs of a dead man, killed with a clean shot through the forehead, his pale blue eyes staring sightlessly into the dark. He had eyes like Walter Longmire Standing Bear realized as he stripped him of his clothes and used them to cover his own nakedness. He felt a brief pang, a regret, at having in any way linked his old friend to this woman killer. The warrior would have stood their ground to fight, leaving the women, children, and very old time to run if they could. More suitable clothes could be found later, for now, this would do.

He had no intention of being naked when he found the other two girls whose scent he was trialing. It was swept towards him with the light breeze that whistled through the canyon and thin copse of trees in this narrow gorge. 

Standing Bear continued his search as a man but he did not speak or call out with his voice. Everything felt broken and splintered, to speak felt like it would give voice all that lay hidden within. He hated the idea of his voice cracking as he called out their names. His throat was constricted, made too tight for words to squeeze past, as he drifted more and more into his head which was an unpleasant place to linger.

If he breathed too deeply he could smell the corpses that littered the canyon, the blood of his enemies that he could not be rid of, as it coated his tongue. He recalled the Mexican, the lust in his hooded eyes and shuddered. If not for his mother's choice he would have joined Still Waters' fate, that many men would have made the outcome inevitable.

His hands curled into fists at his side recalling that long drawn out moment that preceded his _becoming_ as he was surrounded by men who were hard up for company. Men who had clearly been willing to take their pleasures by whatever means they could.

There would have been no rescue, only pain, defilement, and death. It made his skin crawl thinking of being touched by any man who was not Thunder Boy. 

He squeezed his eyes shut to banish the memory to the recess of his mind where it belonged. It had not come to pass. 

Deliberating what might have been was a madness he would not indulge. 

He longed for the comforting weight of Thunder Boy’s rifle at his back, useless as it was without ammunition. Regardless, he would find it before leaving this place. It was Thunder Boy’s last gift, he could not bear the thought of abandoning it to this dark place. It would be found, just as soon as the girls were located and the dead were buried. It would be found.

He would not leave with the rifle. 

Besides that he would search among the ponies for his lover's gray mare. It was a good animal, strong and doughty. He would take it with him on his journey; wherever that might lead. Providing it would take him as he was. Company beyond that of the spirits in his _head_ would be welcome. Even if it was only a mare that whickered and neighed for attention clipping his hair when he did not offer food in its place.

Looking at them would hurt, he knew, but he would not leave them behind. 

They were now all that he possessed: a rifle without ammunition, a horse that might fear him for what lurked within, a white bead that sometimes burned hot against his skin, and a Medicine Bag brimming full of strange magic he did not yet fully understand. Standing Bear would have traded it all for one more minute with Thunder Boy but that choice was not his to make.

The white bead lay still and silent, cold against his skin. 

It would not speak to him, but another very real voice did.

“Standing Bear?” a small voice called out to him. 

It was Dawning Fawn. 

He knew her by sound, for she often had chattered to _him_ as he carved animal shaped into wood by the fireside when the rest of her family tired of her noise. Understanding all too well what it was to not be heard he had always listened most attentively giving little _“hmms”_ and _“mms”_ in answer when she paused, testing that he was minding her constant stream of words that flowed across his ears like the babble of an exuberant river.

Dancing Fawn was not alone, either. 

Another girl huddled close beside her inside the hollowed out tree they had hidden inside at the back of the canyon. Their hands tightly entwined as they trembled from head to toe. The brittle and barren tree was familiar to him and when he cut his eyes to the left he realized why. His stomach lurched, there lay Hawk Woman, staring face up into the night sky with eyes that would never see anything ever again. He knew not how the attackers were blind to the two girl's presence but he knew better than to question; there was power in a mother's love. It was the force that kept his feet walking the trails of the living. 

He made certain that the girls did not see Hawk Woman's body. There would be time enough for that later. Right now he needed to get the three girls in the same place so he could keep them safe and attend to the dead. If they saw their mother there would be a hailstorm of tears and he needed more clear-headedness from the pair. Or so he told himself, and that it had nothing to do with the sting of tears that threatened his own eyes.

He could not bear any more tears, not theirs and certainly not his own. If they were to begin crying now, with Hawk Woman lying dead within sight, he would falter; cracked open right down to the heart of him. 

They had cried so hard that he could smell the salt from where he stood a short distance away. It was Dancing Fawn and Hawk Woman’s eldest daughter, the imperious Tall Oak with a braid that draped down to her well-rounded buttocks. She looked new to his eyes without her usual stamp of disdain on her waif-like face. He preferred the haughty disdain and imperious arch of black brows to her current expression of terror and shock that left her shaking like a leaf, holding tight to little Dancing Fawn who’s expression lit up like a lantern at the sight of him. 

“Look, look,” Dancing Fawn said to Tall Oak who nodded with a chin that wobbled.

“I see, little one,” her elder sister murmured. 

He approached slowly, their hearts raced wildly, and it made the beast within set to stirring. 

_Order them still_ , the brown wolf grunted. _Else your base instinct overcome your will._

_I will not harm them_ , Standing Bear growled back, _they are only children._

_Think you the dark thing within cares? I assure you it does not._

_I am it, and it is me, and you too are now part of me, brown wolf! And I say these girls will come to no harm by my hand!_ Standing Bear snapped, his temper flaring. 

_Good, you begin to see, little skinwalker,_ the brown wolf mused, _it is us, now and forever, we are all likewise bound -- each to the other._

_Did you just --_

_Anger you to make you think beyond the miasma of grief that even now clouds your judgment and actions? Yes. Now, care for the small ones, their spirits are leaking from their eyes as you bandy words with me._

This time Standing Bear did not argue with the brown wolf, for he was right. Again. He knelt down to peer into the girls hiding spot, motioning with his hand for them to follow, they were too shaken and disturbed by their own experiences to realize he was not Standing Bear, at least, not as they had last known him. It was just as well. He meant them no harm and there was nowhere safe to run except the waiting arms of the wendigo’s which even then lingered in the shadow of the canyon, screaming their hunger into the pale moon that hung in the night sky.

Still Water was clean of her rapist's scent when he came upon her again, seated upon a log, her tears dried and her face solemn. He looked at her, opened his mouth thinking of brown wolfs counsel and closed it again, turning away. 

_Coward,_ brown wolf grunted. 

_Maybe, but tell me what should I say? What would you have me say, brown wolf?_ Standing Bear shot back. 

_All will be well, the man who wronged you is dead. I will not leave you three until a better protector can be found,_ the brown wolf said. 

Blue Badger from the Blackfoot tribe had been tirelessly, and fruitlessly, wooing the girl he privately mused. As the thought dawned, so did an idea of where he might be able to take the girls that they would be cared for and looked after, Voices Carry On The Wind had several unmarried men among her camp, perhaps the three girls could begin a new life among the Blackfoot tribe.

For all that brown wolf was separate from himself, he began to realize the points where they blended in speech. All will be well, huh? That was what he had said to others in the past. To Thunder Boy. 

Standing Bear had not considered what came next at length but knew he would not abandon the girls to the Black Canyons or what dangers lurked, waiting to seize upon three girls wandering alone without protection. 

He looked at the two girls hovering to his left and the wounded girl to his right and said what the brown wolf had bade him speak. 

“All will be well, in time,” he said, putting as much confidence as he could muster into his words. “I -- I will not leave you until I can find a tribe who will take good care of you. Perhaps you would like to see Blue Badger?” he asked Tall Oak.

“Perhaps,” Tall Oak said, her face down turned. 

“You need not accept any offers right off, but -- but it would be good to consider such a thing right?” he suggested, fumbling through his words. 

“It would only be right,” Tall Oak agreed, still so soft in tone that his worry for her grew. She looked exactly how he felt, very lost and alone.

“We will work something out,” Standing Bear concluded, it was the best he could offer the sad-faced girl. 

“Yes, as Standing Bear says, all will be well in due time,” Still Water agreed, sounding so like Hawk Woman that his heart twinged. 

“Will you not join us, Standing Bear?” Dancing Fawn asked. 

“No I cannot,” he said, though it pained him to admit. 

He would not be welcome among any tribe as a skinwalker. The three girls sensed something, but they were also suffering from shock and their own private griefs. They would realize, soon enough. 

“Why?” Dancing Fawn demanded, reaching for his hands. 

He jerked his hand away from her small grasping fingers. She toppled to her knees and he reacted instinctively, kneeling beside her and gently righting her. It was not her touch he minded, it was the blood that coated him he did not wish to smear on her innocent skin. 

“There, there, do not cry,” he said carefully wiping the stay tears. “I will not leave until you are well settled and happy, alright?” 

“If I am not settled and happy you will have to stay?” she asked. 

Standing Bear laughed, his hand touching at his face in shock, he had thought laughter gone from his life forever. 

“Do not be silly Dancing Fawn, Standing Bear cannot remain forever with three women. He must do man-things,” Tall Oak said, her eyes sparking with amusement as they landed on him. 

“Do man-things, but come back after?” Dancing Fawn insisted. 

Standing Bear shook his head at her child-like cunning, but did not argue. He would deal with her sudden attachment to him when the moment for parting arrived. She saw him as a protector and was latching on to the sense of safety she found in him.

He did not begrudge her this – it warmed his heart a little.

Though, he was loath to see it change. To see it become fear and revulsion instead of this little up-turned face with eager bright eyes that expected him to be able to _fix_ everything. There was no fixing a thing like this; but damned if he wouldn’t try for little Dancing Fawn and her bright-eyes. 

_The flush of youth is over so soon, let her keep it a while more,_ brown wolf agreed. 

_Yes, what little is left._

Dancing Fawn looked at Still Water over his shoulder and released him, running to fling her arms around her thin shoulders. 

The three girls embraced and he left them to hug and cry together as he returned to the heart of the massacre, collecting horses and items from the enemies’ dead. 

There were many m horses, which he would divide between the three women, keeping only a spare packhorse and Thunder Boy’s gray pony for himself. His heart ached to thinking of his dead lover, but it was a distant hollow thing. There was a high wall between him and whatever feelings roiled on the rocks below. He did not plan to take it down any time soon, or ever again. 

_Walls do not stand forever,_ the brown wolf cautioned. _Many have I seen go up, many more have I seen tumble back to earth._

_Later,_ Standing Bear bit out. 

“We must bury the dead,” he said aloud, when the three girls approached him, “I will do this, you may rest and wash if you so desire,” he said hoping they would leave him to do this alone. The frightened beating of their hearts hurt him, as did the fear stark in their wide eyes. They had finally sensed the change within him, and they were – _rightfully_ – afraid. 

“We will help, Standing Bear,” Still Water said, the chosen voice for the three girls. “They are our family, too it is our duty to do this thing with you.” 

He did not argue, speaking was hard; it felt wrong. Everything felt _wrong._ Especially his own, _human_ , skin. How much simpler it would be to become the brown wolf. To vanish within the beast and its blood and bone of primal instinct.

To hunt and to live, and eventually, if he were lucky, to _forget_.

But he could not do that until the dead were laid below the earth. The enemies he would leave for the vultures and rats to gnaw upon, but the rest, well. 

He would see it done. 

************

They dug graves until their hands were torn and ragged, nails clipped short where they were not out-right broken. He hated the sight of the girl's damaged hands, Tallied them among his failings. Though he had no care for his own which healed unnaturally fast. He dug harder, deeper, out of spite. Canyon rock was unforgiving, even with the aid of sharp edges rock to cut away the layers of earth it was hard work that left the girls sweaty and exhausted. He had said he could do this alone but they would not have it; they needed to see their family laid to rest. This was a thing he understood well, so he let them have their way.

They could not be terribly frightened, after all they did not listen so well and he had been insistent that they not tear at the earth with their bare hands. It had been like whistling into the wind. It was both frustrating and amusing to Standing Bear who had given in and returned to his own solitary thoughts as he worked. 

Dancing Fawn, not wanting to be left out, had tried to follow in the example of her two sisters Tall Oak and Still Water; for their part they would have allowed it. To stuck within their own wall of grief to nay say her fool hardy actions. 

Standing Bear, having silenced the whisperings of his heart, was not. He took her aside with a hand on her shoulder to guide her from the worst of the corpses. 

It did not pass beyond notice to the older girls that many of the whites and Mexicans had been torn limb from limb. It was not a sight for young eyes to linger upon; it but doubled his shame.

He should have shown more mercy -- he knew that. But the men were still dead and their entrails mingled with the dead among their own tribe. He could not bear the idea of Dancing Fawn seeing the damage he had wrought and cowering in fear of the hated _yee naagloshii_ he had become. 

“Here, Dancing Fawn, I have an important task for you now. See those horses scattered throughout? Gather them all together for me and your sisters so that we may divide them among you -- take your time,” Standing Bear encouraged, “and choose from their number any three that you favor and I will give them to you for your own keeping.” 

Dancing Fawn's face lit up as if from within and for a moment a lightness returned to his heart. Her simple joy did wonders for his peace of mind, to see her so well pleased by the idea of her own pony made him smile. It felt strange, but not unwelcome, to feel something beyond the yawning emptiness that lay in wait for the quiet still moment yet to come. 

“Oh, oh, I will do this thing right now!” Dancing Fawn, buoyed by such excitement that he knew she would have her hands full wrangling the horses who would shy from her in her exuberant state. But it would keep her occupied and her eyes from straying too long on the corpses strewn about. After all, she would be busy choosing among their number the three she favored best. The dead had no more need for horses than they did for clothes; the horses ridden by their enemy would serve to replace some of what the girls had lost.

He did not wish for them to go empty handed to whatever tribe would have them. The horses would be collected, and if they agreed to his plan, they would remain together for a time as he began hunting for pelts to use as dowries to complement the ponies. 

He would not send them off with nothing but the clothes on their backs; they would have much to offer the tribe that accepted them as daughters and wives. He could do this one last thing for them -- if they would suffer his presence a little longer. 

It took several days to dig the graves, one for each of the dead. Most of the tipis were blood splattered with gore and viscera; some belonged to their clan but not all. Standing Bear stared at the corpse of a dead Mexican, his eyes pecked out by glossy black crows, and could still see the fear frozen into his muscles locked in a death-scream, his half eaten lips baring a row of dirty, rotted teeth. 

“We should bury them,” Still Water said, kicking the corpse so that he could not keep staring at the decomposing face. “They stink, and will attract predators.” 

Standing Bear’s smile was grim and humorless. “The only thing of concern is the wendigo -- and even it seems to come no closer than thirty feet. They do not deserve your concern, Still Water.” 

Still Water looked at him without speaking for a long moment, deciding whether to broach the issue further with him. “My concern is not for them, Standing Bear, but for you. I see how you look when you see them, this reminder of death is not good for you. It is not safe...for us.” 

Standing Bear grimaced, feeling the sting of her quiet rebuke. 

“The darkness within is tamed, Still Water, let it be,” he said, turning to the last body.

The one which broke his heart to gaze upon, and yet he could not tear his eyes from it. He wanted to cry, to scream, and rend his clothes, and lay down in the dirt as he had just after the massacre was ended. He did not do that, instead he calmly sat down cross legged beside the body of his dead love, Thunder Boy. 

He closed his loves’ unseeing eyes, hating the coldness of his flesh, the pallor of his face, and the stink of death that was ripening. He braced his hands on his thighs taking deep breaths as his chest hitched and his heart kicked against his ribs, an unruly thing, as if it wished to fly its cage and lay beside Thunder Boy, too. 

Soon he could breathe again, coughing against the unpleasant smell so much more pungent to his new sense, and he brushed dark hair out of Thunder Boy’s face one last time. Standing Bear looked at the small knife, Hawk Woman’s gift, and by taking hold of large chunks shorn his hair until it barely brushed his shoulders. He tucked the knife back into his waist ties and gathered his hair at the back of his neck with a simple thong; he had no need for customs or tradition to mark him as Cheyenne; he was a Indian with no tribe. 

With hands that trembled he took the bone necklace made of bleached buffalo from around Thunder Boy’s neck. He could not bear to wear it. It was too soon. But he couldn’t let go of the memory it represented. The night his lover's mother, Red Deer, had gifted it to him so happy and proud of her son. Thunder Boy had worn it around his neck for seven years.

He knew he should leave it, bury Thunder Boy with it but he couldn't, if all he could take of his family from this cursed place were the rifle, the grey pony, and this damned buffalo-bone necklace, then that's what he’d do.

He needed something to hold onto -- something tangible to weigh down his spirit that was ill settled within his body. Half determined to take flight while he yet drew breath. 

If not for the girls...if not for the _brown wolf_ who even now helped the world settle around him more gently when he wanted to lay down and sleep until the grief brewing within died down…

Well, he did not know what he might have done. 

Might _still_ do when there was no more need for him and the girls were gone to start new lives somewhere far from all things such as he was now.

“All things which live, die,” Standing Bear said, gazing around at all the dead, his newly buried family, his friends, his lover.

“Except me -- I guess you were wrong, Thunder Boy,” he said, and though nothing showed in his face, which was hard as stone, inside he wept bitter tears of guilt and grief. His lover was no longer alive to speak the words he _needed_ to hear. 

A phantom voice whispered in the wind; the words his heart wanted. He dismissed it for the wild imagining of his guilt hearing what it wanted to. It was a wisp of a memory that trailed into his ears -- nothing more. His mind was too loud with recrimination to be denied. White Star laid dead respectfully buried deep in the earth, and yet his voice spoke loudest of them all.

How long ago it seemed now that night when he and Thunder Boy had exchanged words and made love beneath the open skies, so certain that they had more time for such things. Standing Bear sighed, weary and steeply aged in the passing of one night wearing his hurt tightly wrapped inside. It was all in his head. 

The dead did not speak. 

_Thunder Boy said to him, teasing and kind: “You are the kindest most honorable man I know, Standing Bear, someday I tell myself, you will see this.”_

_“If not today?” he would ask._

_And Thunder Boy had always replied: “Then tomorrow.”_

He sorely missed Thunder Boy’s confidence, the gentle words that quieted his own dark worries on long nights when the coyotes howled until morning. They were words that were no longer true. Standing Bear had become what he feared in the end, and believed only himself to blame for the outcome. For there was no one else to shoulder the burden. His mother? Dead. By his own hand. He wanted to cut off the hand that took her life.

He wanted...well, it did not matter. They were all dead. Except him, he would live on. _Forever._ If the tales were correct death would not collect his spirit any time soon, perhaps not ever. 

Standing Bear, with his cracked nails, and bleeding fingers dug another grave in _Black Canyon_ , one which he did not let the women help him with no matter how much he bled into the dirt where Thunder Boy would soon be entombed. They stood off to the side at a respectable distance, silent witnesses as he dug a hole deep enough that scavengers would not unearth the body. 

Brown wolf, who knew his mind too well, spoke as he knelt over the grave, now filled with sandy dirt and covering the face he had loved looking upon most in the world. 

_Bury the dead, little skinwalker, it is right to do this. Only be wary that you do not throw yourself in behind. There is living for you to do._

Standing Bear remained motionless at the grave for many hours as though he had become as hard and unmovable as the canyons whose sharp peaks thrust into the black sky. Brown wolf was both wrong and right at the same time. Life stretched out before him. Endless, eternal life forced to walk the twilight path as neither monster nor man. How strange to suffer life and its ordinary trappings of the day to day when he still longed for the embrace of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> These past chapters have been like slogging uphill in snow...
> 
> Hopefully the later chapters will be better!
> 
> _Comments, kudos, & queries are welcome!_


	12. Burying the dead (in the ashes of what once was)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the winter of 1725 Standing Bear and his company of three escaped the pull of Back Canyon and began learning how to live again. The young Dancing Fawn became in her heart _Loved By Horses_ as her sadness was lessened by Ninova, Oota Daun, and Kiwidinok. Tall Oak became bitter as the oak of a walnut tree, and Still Water chose the path of Swift Coyote by conceiving a child born of rape. 
> 
> Standing Bear, beset with misplaced guilt, tormented himself with memories of the dead.

#  _**Wyoming: Winter 1725** _

Burying the dead was not an easy thing. It was about more than scraping out holes in the earth. It was ripping up seedlings trying to grow and unearthing dirt from its natural place so something _new_ could be interred. It was about laying to rest bodies so that they could return to the embrace of mother earth, their spirits allowed to lie at peace. It was about many hard things, burying the dead. The canyon was rigid and unforgiving on nails, which cracked, and skin, which took to bleeding red into the dirt when split. Neither of those things concerned Standing Bear.

He was still the walking wounded numbed by the total loss of everything he knew and loved. No. Burying the dead was about more to Standing Bear whose back was bent from the time it had taken to do it and whose hands were bloodied. His blood mixed with dirt embedded beneath his nails. It was the final goodbye. A last service to the departed and, perhaps selfishly, praying to the Creator that it might be enough to salve the wound and shore up the empty spaces where your loved ones once walked beside you.

This was what it meant to Standing Bear, the pain a slave to his guilt, the act of being helpful easing his own doubts. The holes he dug became his private penance of blood and sweat. Only time would tell if it would be enough. There were moments when he thought he had kicked the first wave of the grief only for a second wave to crest, hitting him in the chest stealing his breath from his lungs.

He was drowning in it some moments -- and keep his head above water at others. 

It was a relief to see Hawk Woman’s daughters bearing up well. Or at least, they had put on brave faces masking the bulk of their sorrows. He was not in a position to help them, they did not trust him, and he was too consumed with his own doubts to console them of theirs.

Tall Oak had always been imperious, but now she was also cold as a winter gale. The pleasing curve of her face had become hard as sculpted stone and her eyes black ice that would douse the hottest fire. Where her icebound glower lingered cold patches seemed to form. He could definitely _feel_ it when her eyes flicked in his direction, there was an unpleasant sensation of river water running down his back that washed over him until she turned her eyes in another direction. 

Tall Oak’s nose scrunched at his mere presence, and he flinched. He gave her a wide berth not wishing to stir trouble.

They _needed_ him whether they liked it or not was inconsequential. It was their need that kept him from drowning too deeply in his own troubles. He could be of use, so he remained close at hand and bore their distrust and looks with quiet acceptance.

Tall Oak’s icy glare did not help Standing Bear ward off the deepening of his own cold depression. Good intentions or not. He felt as though he were shouting from the bottom of a black well but no one would ever come.

Eventually, he would have to stop calling out for help -- there was no one with ears to hear. A curtain of black fog was hung over his head. Climbing his way out was becoming harder and harder.

He discovered that for a newly shifted skinwalker he _fretted_ just the same as when he had been just a man. If it were not so annoying it would have been funny. He had all this power and darkness inside him, yet he felt weak in all the ways that truly mattered. 

Still Water was not as cold as Tall Oak, but she did not trust him. It was in the way her eyes cut towards him whenever he moved, the hand that strayed to the carving knife belted around her narrow hips. And then of course there was _it_ \-- Lame Bull’s white ash spear.

It was never far from her right hand and she was not secretive about that either. 

Still Water bore her grief well; remaining calm and measured in word and actions. Little of what she truly felt had bled to the surface. Standing Bear could only hope he had walled over the worst of his own fears, too, and that his emotions were not even now naked across his face.

Broken open like a turtle shell. 

He shuddered at the thought of being so clearly seen right now, shouldered his light pack, and walked among the ponies, some nervously whickering and tossing their heads about as he passed. Standing Bear left Dancing Fawn, Tall Oak, and Still Water to say their own private goodbyes as he gathered the horses and necessities for their travels. This was usually women’s work he supposed but he did not care to pry them from their mother's grave for busy work he could do alone.

He preferred it, now. Being alone. 

He had hands and feet capable of collecting and calming the animals. What’s more, it felt _good_ to be kept busy. _Useful_ , even. He kept his mind and his body well occupied. It was for the best, really, considering the dark bent of his thought of late. 

It was good for him to be around the animals. There was simplicity to them and their ways that he envied. They were what they were and did not spend time afraid of what they were not... 

He had always liked horses, and they had always liked him back. Standing Bear had feared they might run from him in fright but they did not. Some became skittish at first, their breath billowing out through their nose, snorting their anxiety, but was easily calmed with a steady hand and soft voice. 

Whatever strangeness they sensed in him it was not enough to keep them from nosing at him in curiosity, looking for food or attention. He felt _seen_ , at last. And _heard_. It did much to help his wounded spirit. 

“I mean you no harm,” he murmured, and they decided to take him at his word. He almost cast a baleful glance toward the three women but resisted the urge. They were not to blame nor were their fears unfounded. He bitterly recalled the hushed conversation of last night.

_“He is --” began Tall Oak._

_“I know,” replied Still Water._

_“How?” Tall Oak demanded, “How did this -- this change happen?”_

_“I do not know and will not ask, nor will you Tall Oak, I forbid it. He has kept us safe, unless it has escaped your notice the creatures of the canyon will not approach for fear of Standing Bear.”_

_“Is he even Standing Bear anymore?” Tall Oak snapped._

_“He is enough of who he was --” Still Water said, “but he is also more of a skinwalker than he ever was before, too.”_

_Still Water pursed her lips, her voice cold and detached. “He is changed I do not deny this -- but then, are we not all changed, sister?”_

_Tall Oak snorted, discontent and unhappy with her sisters’ complacency, but she said nothing more on the matter._

For his part Standing Bear set aside their misgiving. He took his joy where it could be found speaking in hushed tones with the gathering of animals that were now to be divided among their number. They were strong and beautiful, born with a wide variety of coloring on their coats: dappled grays, roans, and buckskin-browns. Yes, they were lovely creatures to the last one. A little underfed, and apprehensive to human touch but as fine as any bunch of horses they might have had the good fortune to own. 

“There, see, nothing to be afraid of,” he muttered, patting the brave ones who stuck their massive heads towards his shoulder and outstretched hand. They took to him without missing a step after that.

At this, he felt a small piece of his spirit begin to settle into place. If this small thing remained unchanged, perhaps there was hope yet for him. There might be other things about him that had remained as they were, and should have always been. 

Thunder Boy’s mare whinnied a greeting, the horses parting from her path as if she were their matriarch, as she came trotting to him expectantly seeking attention and for one blinding moment he felt _whole_. 

Thunder Boy’s mare that had loved him _before_ loved him still. 

She didn't care too much that his scent was a little different: like the plains during thunderstorms, the sharp musk of wet pinewood, and a hint of ash. He reminded himself when he became too privately bitter that she was a horse, not a human taught to fear the _yee naagloshii_ around the campfires, and had no such qualms with his presence. 

Her breath misted against his face and he leaned into her massive shoulder as she stood there, calm and serene, as he silently fell to pieces. But in a good way; as the wandering bits of himself stitch back together scattered into a new formation. Her head turned, the velvet of her muzzle glancing over his back and he let himself imagine it was a hug.

Peace, temporary as a spider web, settled over his mind.

It felt good, to not feel so utterly _broken_ on the spears of change. 

As he wandered among the ponies he quietly murmured to them, smoothing their flowing manes and patting the affectionate ones on the side as their sides quivered, providing them a distraction from wendigo’s who still screeched from the canyon walls.

He noticed that the wendigos skittered away falling back into formless shadows the moment he locked eyes with them. Like submissive dogs, they dipped their heads and retreated. If they possessed tails they would have been tucked between their legs. Fear of _him_ trumped the gnawing hunger that drove them out into the cold and dark every night searching for prey.

Wendigos, he learned that night, feared skinwalkers. 

_Everything that cherishes life fears skinwalkers_ , brown wolf grumbled, and Standing Bear sighed. With good reason; it -- _he_ \-- was a creature of darkness, death, and blood. _You are not quite like the rest you know_? Brown wolf cautioned. _Your darkness is leashed by your iron will._

_So you say._

Having spoken his piece the brown wolf fell silent, unwilling to argue with him on the matter of what he had become. Brown wolf became little more than a quiet comfort that lingered in the back of his mind; a shield against the loneliness that leached at his waking thoughts. He did not say _‘thank you’_ exactly but he knew the sentiment was understood and the silence that followed was comfortable.

“Mother-” Still Water choked out.

Standing Bear deafened his ears to the rest of what she may have said. He instead turned his attention to the ponies, which were thirty in number. It was not for him to hear.

He would not spy on them in their grief. 

He had already spoken with his heart all that he would ever say on the matter and he felt deep inside that his words had been received. Wherever it was the dead traveled he knew that at least his mother was not alone, nor was Thunder Boy. For them, the pain ended. In the bitter parting of death, it was only the _living_ that suffered, wandering the earth with open wounds that required time and patience -- lots of patience -- to heal.

_Let them have this_ , he thought, patting the gray mare trotting along at his heels who nudged his shoulder for more when he ceased paying attention to her.

Best that they got it out now. It would never be safe to return and speak their words over the graves some other time.

It had to be now, and then they should never return.

As for himself, he would never willingly set foot within this canyon once leaving it behind. It was cursed, and its memories held nothing but pain. Better to let such places be; nothing good came from disturbing land steeped in so much darkness and innocent blood.

The ponies and quarter horses that were ridden by the gang were skittish to the touch and required some gentling before they would bear weight upon their backs. He was reminded, again, looking at the riderless horses that six men had escaped with their lives -- the rest of them lay dead among the bodies of his people.

The cowards had run once they saw him... _shift_. 

How quick their mood had turned from vicious lust to horror when the lone Indian they cornered became something decidedly more _– or possible less --_ than human before their watching eyes.

It had felt good, in that single moment before every atom in his body exploded into a raging fire.

Blood madness.

That was what it had felt like. He had tore and rent his enemies’ limb from limb, or with his wolf-jaws gouged open the meat of their thighs and throats so they died slow from their wounds.

He had felt sickened only when he came back to himself matted in their blood.

It was wrong, perhaps, what he had done but they had been bad men engaged in the killing, scalping, and raping of his people. His regret over his actions was mollified with the knowledge of what they would have done to _him_ given the chance.

_Do no linger here_ , brown wolf grumbled and Standing Bear wordlessly agreed as he soothed the horses. It was not something he wanted to think to hard on. If he were not what he was, he would have been dead. If he where not what he was Still Water would have also shared his fate, and he would have known hers in turn. There were so many _ifs_ and _might-haves_ a man could go mad considering the angles.

He, wisely, let it go.

Standing Bear examined the torn flesh at the ponies' girth and sides where spurs broke the skin and felt his disgust increase. He leaned against their rough coats and wondered why they tolerated him, having carried such men as that on their backs. He had caught the men’s scent. Their toll would come due someday. One way or another, they would be dealt with by his hand. Instinctively he perceived that when he was ready he could seek and find them; there had to be some truth to the skinwalker tales after all. _Skinwalker_ hunting skills were unparalleled, which is what made them so dangerous.

_Let them run_. There was no horse alive faster than _yee naagloshii_ nor was any haven completely safeguarded against them -- against _him_. 

If he were to become a monster, he would be a _useful_ one and destroy the men who had set into motion this shifting of his fate. 

First, though, he had to see to the safety and future of the three surviving Cheyenne. Then, when he was alone again, he would see what could be done about the men who escaped the massacre at _Black Canyon_.

Standing Bear allowed his thoughts of vengeance to peter out like so much ash on the wind. Instead, he chose to focus on letting the animals become accustomed to his scent and talking in low hushed tones with them so they would know they had nothing to fear from him. While he occupied himself with the animals the three women stood huddled over their mother's grave, three strong shoots of dark willow limbs that swayed in the harsh winds but did not break.

He admired them for their strength; it was a precarious situation for them all. Their bravery did not go unnoticed; for all that it made him bitter that he was one of the very things they stood so bravely against.

They _needed_ him right now, that was all, and he knew it well.

Still Water had shorn her hair; she now looked more like a young Cheyenne brave than a woman, and her eyes were overflowing with cleansing tears. Tall Oak held her hand with her left and Dancing Fawn with her right, making an interlocked circle of grief. They released their gasp upon one another and approached where he waited with the animals. He held the reigns of Thunder Boy’s gray mare in his hand, the useless rifle on his back, and a black and white pinto that he had loaded with what provisions they could carry with them on their journey. 

Dancing Fawn’s face lit up, her earlier sadness melting somewhat when her gaze dropped to the three horses she had chosen: a pure white pony, a sweet-tempered but otherwise ordinary brown pony, and a blood-red quarter horse. She walked to the brown pony which trotted forward, ready to accept her on its back, nickering and tossing its head in greeting. It was as affectionate as any well-minded dog, the sight bringing begrudging smiles to her two older sisters' faces. Standing Bear watched, his own heart lifting at the innocent display of affection that poured between the girl and pony.

Standing Bear knelt down speaking to her at her level. “I see why you chose that one, a gentle disposition is worth more than all the beauty to be found in a horse that does not wish to be ridden.”

Dancing Fawn beamed, nodding decisively at him. There was not a single ounce of fear in her even though her sisters had warned her to be careful of him earlier in the night. They had whispered to Dancing Fawn, either unknowing or uncaring that he could hear them just fine even at a distance, that she should not attach herself to him because: _‘he is changed, little fawn, and you must be wary.’_

He had chosen to believe they were not being deliberately cruel. 

“Mother said I should learn to look with more than my eyes for they lie, but the heart when it sees true does not.”

Standing Bear swallowed, his chest constricting at her innocent words. “She was a wise woman.”

“Yes, well,” she coughed, valiantly trying to cover the thickness of her voice that crackled with suppressed emotion.

_Such strength from such a small one_ , brown wolf mused equally impressed with little Dancing Fawns courage.

“Which among these fine ponies will be yours?” Dancing Fawn asked, turning to her sisters who walked among the horses each choosing ten for the strength of their bodies and the colors that appealed to their eyes. Still Water took those who were mostly brown in color; Tall Oak accepted the black mare with a white forelock that tossed its head, a bright spark in its eye, and the rest at random. 

The horses did not shy from the girls, but they did not flock to them either. Not like they had when he walked among them collecting their reins and checking their bodies for serious wounds. It was petty, he knew, but he was glad of this.

Standing Bear overlooked the herd and knew he would have to pick out seven more of the animals. He hoped they would be given as a gift to the family who took in Dancing Fawn -- they would be selected from his chosen animals. It would be best if she didn’t have names picked out for those, too. It might become necessary to trade some of the horses in the future -- and with names came sentimental attachments that made the parting all the harder. He had seen all the tears he could stomach and wished to see Dancing Fawns even less.

She was such a brightly burning spirit amidst all the darkness, he would safeguard her light as best he could until he found someone better to mind her -- her _and_ her sisters. Let them fear him if they wished, he did not blame them too much. It was the natural reaction of his people to a skinwalker. He would see them safe and well cared for regardless before they parted ways for the last time.

He smiled at Dancing Fawn and her animated chatter as she skipped along in his wake; it felt foreign on his face, but welcome. 

Dancing Fawn had not shared her animals' names with him as of yet but it was only a matter of time. Her chatter was also a welcome change of pace from Tall Oak and Still Water’s stoic reserve; they could sense the change in him now that they had been given time to settle. It was apparent in how they dealt with him. 

Standing Bear did not begrudge them their wariness. And what part of him did he buried deep below the surface, under miles of earth, and commanded it to silence. They had a right to it. He could be bitter in private but he would not let it rule his actions. How could he blame them? He did not even trust himself yet. 

_Give yourself time_ , brown wolf chided, his words felt like a gruff pat atop the head before fading back into silence. 

Standing Bear absently clutched the Medicine Bag hung around his neck, feeling the warmth of the magic seeping into the palm of his hand. He did not understand everything, but he began to see. Lame Bull, known for his bouts of foresight, must have seen visions of this moment’s arrival and prepared the gift accordingly.

There was a silver thread connected to the Medicine Bag and himself, he could feel it, a tether between his dark power and the spirit of the brown wolf, which had spoken to him. The brown wolf was still with him now, a quiet presence curled in the back of his mind, and his loneliness abated even if his grief was still lapping at his knees, chilly as river water in the depths of winter. It was made tolerable, bearable, as he busied himself with the trappings of providing, planning, and _living_.

All things that was required of him now. 

_Demanded_ in actuality, if brown wolf was to be believed. No, he would not throw himself into the ground after his dead love, Thunder Boy. Life marched on and within its margins, he would abide. It would have been poorly done to squander the gift his mother bargained for: _a life for a life._

“We are ready now,” Tall Oak said, proud and unwavering with her grief quietly stowed in some dark corner. 

He envied her stoic mask, the composed lines of her face and the clearness of her sharp walnut eyes. He felt as if his heart was broken open -- red organ exposed and far too weak for his liking. Standing Bear said none of this aloud, shutting down his train of thought as much as he was able. 

Tired of spinning the wheels of thoughts that led nowhere, Standing Bear asked Dancing Fawn what names she had chosen for her favorite animals and let her speak to her heart's content. The women began to thaw the farther they traveled. He was careful to never step outside of respectable bounds with any of them -- it helped. They were beginning to relax their guard. Still Water hid her smile behind her hand and Tall Oak merely arched an imperious black brow, so much like his mother it was most unsettling. They did not say it but knew what they were thinking from the way they tittered: _better you than us_. 

Dancing Fawn talked for many hours and his ears didn’t mind the listening. It was not the usual way of things but he was learning that he soon had to find a _new way_. This was as good a beginning as any. Her words rolled over him, the sweet, gentle cadence of her young voice a much more pleasing distraction than his inner thoughts. The sweet-tempered, but plain colored pony she had called Ninovan, _Our Home_ , for it carried her small pack of supplies and the folded material for tipis. Apply named, he supposed, for the horse who carried everything she owned and was tightly fastened to her heart. The pure white pony was now called Oota Daun, _Day Star_ , and it could not be more fitting. The animal's coat would glisten white in the sun.

He would have to watch that one closely to be sure it was not stolen by horse-thieves for it was very appealing to the eye.

Her last animal, a large ungelded quarter horse she named Kiwidinok, _Of The Wind_ , because, she had said, _he looked fast_.

Standing Bear watched the horses now and then and found that Dancing Fawn had chosen their names well. Each one was much in tune with the name they had been given. The young girl was not wrong about Kiwidinok either; he had the build and legs to earn his name. As they traveled Dancing Fawn gravitated toward the horses more and more, and it seemed them to her. When she fell into sadness she would go away from the group to see them, patting their heads and talking to them when her sisters chased her off with stern scowls. Dancing fawn always returned with her spirits replenished. 

_Loved By Horses_ suited the little girl more and more with the passing of each day. Where she went, so followed her chosen three: gentle _Ninovan_ , high spirited _Oota Daun_ , and the aloof _Kiwikinok_. 

It annoyed her sisters, always having the animals hovering as close as possible, but it also made them smile so it was not a lost cause and eventually they no longer minded that the three massive beasts minded their small sisters like faithful dogs. It was a laughable sight, bringing much-needed levity to the travelers.

It took a week's travel to leave _Back Canyon_ and _RattleSnake Mountain_. It was good to leave the black rocks far behind, to no longer hear the wendigo’s incessant screeching throughout the long nights broken only by the terrible screaming of whatever unfortunate creatures fell into their paths as they rampaged through the cliff tops, their eyes gleaming down at them from above like hot coals.

Dancing Fawn had cried so hard at the misfortune of the wendigo’s prey that Standing Bear found his own eyes had stung wetly and he had abruptly left her to her sisters comforting arms, where they would begin hushing and rocking her as she clung to them calling for her mother.

Her three animal friends whickered and neighed shrilly at her distress.

Standing Bear suspected that had Kiwikinok laid eyes on the cause of his little master's alarm he would have done the same as the watchdogs that minded their masters' tents. There was a frenzied light that came into the stallion's eyes that night as if a heart long used to metal spurs and hard hands and the trainer's whip was being stirred to awakening from a long sleep. 

Standing Bear had admittedly wanted to scale the cliff tops and rip the damned things limb from limb for the offense. Unfair as it was, there were times that Dancing Fawn was the small bright light to which they cleaved; teasing and talking with her to keep her spirit lit up during the day and telling intricate stories at nightfall. A curtain had temporarily dimmed their own light, but not her; hers was enough to illuminate them all.

Her sobbing tugged at him, a call to action that he didn’t _want_ to challenge. 

Difficult as it was he did nothing, though his blood burned hot at the idea of pressing a confrontation between himself and the creatures. He could not risk taking action and silenced the darkness within himself, which had yawned and stretched with lazy indolence, awaiting his command. He ordered the darkness to lie still and to sleep. Wonder of wonders, it did.

The night passed into day and when she woke Dancing Fawn ate the fish he caught -- it had taken hours for the numbness to leave his body from standing in the river waiting for a fish to swim past -- salmon, which was her favorite, and the last red berries to be found before winter settling in for the long haul.

Easily delighted she had been thoroughly cheered by the food and wiped away the remnants of her tears, which were already forgotten. 

During their travels Standing Bear discovered he was not the only one who laid awake staring into the dark most night, he was accompanied on his night watches by Still Water who restlessly rubbed at her belly when she thought no one was looking. She too suffered from bad dreaming, deep worries had gouged lines at the corner of her eyes, and a quiver to her strong chin. She had purple splotches below her eyes and tiredness that made her move like a woman of four times her age. He had seen her become sick several times in the twilight hours but he said nothing. It was not his place to speak; it was for her and her alone to decide.

“No, no, get off-” she would shout, clawing at a body that was already devoured by scavengers in the canyon that they had escaped.

“Still Water, awake, it is but a dream,” he would say on such nights, his voice rattling her from the threads of sleep that pulled her down. “He is dead.”

“Dead?” she asked, her voice clogged with sleep and thick with fear.

“Dead,” Standing Bear replied, “and torn into a score of different directions. He will never again be whole -- whatever path he now travels he is unmade.”

Still Water dew in a sharp breath, her mouth parting as if to speak before she shook her head and laid back down. “Thank you, Standing Bear,” she whispered, so low and quiet that if he were only a man he might not have heard her soft-spoken words.

Tall Oak, only a few feet away, pretended to sleep but the stillness of her form gave her away. She tended to toss and turn when deeply asleep. Tall Oak no longer knew what to say to her sister so she said nothing at all.

Dancing Fawn, blissfully innocent, slept deeply; the strong _thump-thump_ of sweet Ninovan’s heart its own kind of lullaby. 

After that late-night conversation Still Water smiled and talked with him more during the daytime, and in the night they stared companionably into the dancing orange flames of their small fire. Tall Oak following her sister's lead, did the same. He did not know what had caused the change in Still Water-- but it eased the tightness within his own heart that it had happened. If they feared him, it no longer showed as plainly as it once had. It was enough that at times he found even he forgot that anything was amiss. Until he perceived something beyond human knowledge and range and was reminded; he was his father's son.

Three days of hard travel and they fully escaped the dark pull of the canyons. The first clean breath of air he took that did not hold the stench of decaying bodies was at the rock that looked like a dog that led the way from _RattleSnake Mountain_ , this was how his mother had described the landform to him when he first saw it as a boy and it had stuck. 

Standing Bear took watch for three nights in a row before his body began to feel the strain at which point he allowed Still Water and Tall Oak to alternate with keeping watch.

A tiredprotector was a useless one. 

He had hoped the bad dreams would stop once they escaped the canyons, but it had been a fool's hope. Perhaps the _canyons_ had not released him yet, and he was still under its thrall. Each night Standing Bear buried the dead, again and again, and woke with hands that ached as though he had dug the holes only hours ago and not days and weeks and months. And then he woke to gray twilight morning turning the world into dappled grays and they traveled and hunted and traded as winter dragged on, heavy and relentless. 

Winter came down hard, it was colder and harsher than that last, but they made do, camping near the small settlement of _RiverStone_. Hunting was plentiful and with the town so near there was a small amount of trading that could be done at _John’s General Store_. The man who ran it, John Sullivan, was a widower who had a son and daughter to feed. Standing Bear quickly learned he would trade with anyone who had goods that turned a profit and kept food on the table.

_“Son, be you red, blue, or black I don’t care -- if you got goods worth the trade I don’t care if you’re all the colors of Jacob’s coat.”_

_“Here -- take this sweet for the little one,” he had said, wiping his hands on his apron and snatching a candied treat from a glass jar holding it out to Dancing Fawn who had looked at him for permission before accepting._

Eventually, winter gave way to the green flush of spring as nature renewed itself, pale sprigs of lavender, bluebells, and green shoots poking through the slowly melting snow that blanketed the world. In the bloom of spring, he began hunting for pelts worthy to add to the women's meager possessions. They had agreed with his idea at the onset of leaving _Black Canyon_.

He would see about sending them to the matriarch Voices Carry On The Wind front he Blackfeet Buffalo clan with their ten horses each and a packhorse loaded with new pelts. When the time arrived they would approach their new clan as strong and beautiful Cheyenne women, each one with a great deal to offer to their new family rather than as bedraggled and dirty survivors of a bloody massacre. 

And still, each night he was forced to relive his mother's death, only they were dark ugly things where she spat and cursed and clawed at his face. Swift Coyote had done none of those things -- she had bought his life with her blood. He reminded himself of this again and again. It did not help much.

Dancing Fawn watched as he became more and more distant. She tried to reach him, as kind and good as she was, she had forced wider smiles onto her face and a lightness to her step that he knew she did not feel. So, he tried to. It worked in small moments, enough that Dancing Fawn’s smile became more real, and she turned her attention to other things. Namely her sweet tempered pony, Ninovan, which followed her everywhere. 

He was not the only one who looked at Dancing Fawn and felt uplifted; her sisters joined him in this. She had kept her childlike wonder and it was a blessing that did not go uncounted among their dour company. 

Still Water took first watch and Standing Bear settled down, hoping for dreamless sleep free of the dead, which haunted the corridors of his mind.

_It is not the dead which torment you -- it is you who torments yourself,_ brown wolf snapped becoming tired of his restlessness, his sleepless nights, and a sour mood. _Your family is gone, you must learn to let them go or you will never know peace. You have buried the dead, now you must bury your old self Standing Bear. This is the only way forward._

_Is that what I am, then? Dead?_

Brown wolf grumbled, shaking his large head as he fixed Standing Bear with a baleful glower. _You are that which you are -- changed in some ways and the same in others._

Standing Bear almost laughed, he abstained for fear of disturbing the women; they would have thought him made for certain. He had not told them of the Medicine Bag and brown wolf. He never would; it was not something they could ever understand. 

_What kind of answer is that?_

_The only one I have to give, make peace with the dead and bury them deep. It is the only way._

Time passed, and some days began to blur into one another more than others. He watched over the women with great care, but if he gravitated towards young Dancing Fawn and her small herd of horses more than the others, none could blame him for this choice. The youngest had an easy way about her, very unlike her sisters and belated matriarch, Hawk Woman. Being around the young girl helped to bolster his flagging spirits.

If she was a fire, then he was the wind that blew in a November gale.

Her sparks were catching, heating the empty spaces, and hollowed out sections that had grown to cold; it was an agreeable change. She had lost equally as much, the many years she ought to have had with her mother stolen by death's hands, and there were times when she was sad, but many more when she was not. She still found beauty in the many colors that painted the evening sky with pink and purple and deep fiery orange. She was a little wonder, at times, pointing at things in the distance or the sky above, making birdcalls to draw them ever nearer to her. 

Tall Oak, still bitter and resigned, pushed her away more often than not.

Standing Bear did not hide his amusement at her antics. Dancing Fawn was still miraculously full of wonder at the world she inhabited. It was a welcome reminder that a few good things still remained. To Standing Bear, who felt the pull of darkness from his skinwalker blood, she was one of those good things. Dancing Fawn was, in a way, the embodiment of all their future hopes.

Standing Bear was his own worst enemy in the _days, weeks, months_ that followed the events of Black _Canyon_. He was not ready to release the past. But he must, he knew this, but the knowledge did not make the doing of it easier. He knew full well, the tighter he held on to _what once was_ the worse his present became. With each step he had taken from the canyon he felt the pull of the dead he still bore on his back; a weight he could not lay to rest. He buried the dead every night in his dreams, and himself with them. Brick by brick he had bogged down his spirit until it was left to scrape along the underside of a shallow and stagnant pond – collecting mud and blackened silt. He did himself no favors – and yet he found he could not stop.

He was not ready; releasing the past felt too much like forgetting. And _letting go_ felt like the worst kind of betrayal. He didn’t _want_ to forget, even if through the forgetting -- if only just a little -- his pain would be lessened.

Brown wolf, the cursed beast, had not been wrong. 

It was not the dead, who knew he had loved them to their last breath that tormented his sleep or his idle waking hours as he watched the sun drifting slowly across the pale winter-gray sky. It was not they who had sucked all the beauty from the world with dark, cynical thoughts. Some nights he slept, and on just as many he never closed his eyes for fear of what waited on the other side, crouched behind closed eyelids when unconsciousness crept upon his mind, swallowing him whole, dragging him under its black embrace – willing or no. 

It was not the dead that were to blame. No, that was something he did to himself, by clinging to the old way of living.

That way was forever shut. 

There was no going back, not ever, and it was high time to move forward with his whole heart – or, at least, to try. If he were to falter now White Star, and all those who had believed as he had, would be right. This thought, which pricked at him and needles at his pride, moved him to try harder. It was small and petty, but he hated the idea that White Star could be right about him: that he was useless, a monster, an aberration that should have died before his first breath.

If White Star was _right_ then all the others would be proven wrong and that was unthinkable.

Thunder Boy, Swift Coyote, Little Fox, and Hawk Woman, could they have all been so mistaken?

Standing Bear leaned his elbows on his knees; head bent low, and gently sighed as unseeing eyes stared off into the distance. He did not _want_ Thunder Boy, who had loved him, _strangeness_ and all far more than he deserved, to have been wrong. This, this was what turned his mind and the slow job of shifting his heart which still lingered overmuch on death.

In the long hours still of the night watch as the three women slept Standing Bear dug one last grave.

It was deep enough in the earth that it might not be disturbed. Inside this fresh grave, he laid the last remnants of his love. 

Standing Bear, with oh so careful hands, settled the Buffalo bone necklace into the ground and filled it over with dirt and stone and prayed that it might never breach the surface again. He mourned its loss in stoic silence as the pale half-moon waxed and waned in the black sky.

_What would be would be_. This was just one of many lessons learned in what would be a very _long_ life. There were things at work beyond his control; the machinations of death were one of them. It was a blessing, and a curse, that not even a skinwalker held dominion over the turning of the world. It had to move forward, and so must _he_. 

Still Water, across the way, opened her eyes in the dark as the fire danced shadows across her face. 

He met her gaze. 

“What will you do about the child?” he finally asked, for her stomach was beginning to grow and it could no longer be denied that she was going to bear the seed of her rapist. 

Still Water remained quiet for a long time, thinking. “I understand Swift Coyote so much better now than I could when I first was a young girl listening to the story at the fire. She chose life for you, Standing Bear, _twice_. Both times she did so at a steep price, I can only hope that I have the strength to do the same.”

Standing Bear felt as if all the blood had left this body. Still Water _knew_ \-- she knew what he had done that day. He buried his head in his hands, taking deep breaths to ease the sudden pain shooting through his chest. 

He should have known…

“Your mother loved you Standing Bear, Thunder Boy loved you, my mother...loved you. Will you waste their love by holding on to the past?” Still Water asked him, her mouth pulled into a thin line of disapproval. 

“Will you throw away what they shed blood to protect? Or will you stop living in the past every night? I hear you, you call out their names and shout in your sleep -- you break my heart Standing Bear, and it would surely break _theirs_.”

He opened his mouth but Still Water shook her head. “It is not _me_ who needs an answer, but you. Think about this and see if you might find the answer within your own heart.”

Still Water turned over her back facing him and the conversation ended. Standing Bear, however, remained awake staring into the fire for many long hours. She was right, of course. Just as brown wolf was also right. It was time to bury the dead in the ashes of what once was and would never be again. He was thoroughly sick of falling to pieces over what could never change.

His mother, yet another person who was unfailingly right, would have said: _‘what will be will be. All that you may d, my son, is your best and it will have to be enough. For yourself, and for those you act on behalf of.’_

And she would have been _right_. He missed the warmth of her hugs and the smell of lavender sprigs she would twine into her dark hair but he could not keep tormenting himself with how she had died.

It was not what she would have wanted.

_I warned you, little skinwalker,_ brown wolf chided. _Life is a blessing meant for the living, not for hanging on to the dead._

Standing Bear fell inwards and while his physical eyes stared into the orange firelight his spirit conversed with the brown wolf. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, tired from lack of sleep and the weight he was only beginning to let go of; the dead he had carried for so long. 

_Yes, you were right, brown wolf, is that what you want me to say?_

_No. I want you to let old wounds heal. I want you to stop picking at scars until they break open and bleed freshly. That is fair, I think._

_You and I are bound together, Standing Bear,_ brown wolf emitted a long, deep breath fixing Standing Bear with a sharp piercing look. 

He admired the fire that crackled in the wolf's golden eyes and his spirit, which burned hotly. 

_Yes, we are._

_We two are bound, for good or for ill._

Brown wolf snorted, his head shaking and fur ruffling at the moment. _Stop being so pessimistic and go to sleep._

Standing Bear slept and for the first time, he did not dream of anything besides the _Great Hunt_. He was a gray wolf racing through the twilight after the _white hart_. He never caught it, though he ran so hard his muscles strained terribly and his muzzle was open, tongue lolling as he panted for breath. He woke from his dreaming when the hart crossed a flowing river that was a startling _blue_.

A memory stirred in the recess of his mind: two boys meeting beside a river and a magic rock, which thrummed and hummed calling to them both. A warm caress that drew him clover to it, and to the boy who had eyes as deep and blue at the heavens above. It felt like it had happened to someone else, and many years more than it really had been. His hand closed around the white-bead still fastened around his next and smiled.

If he were not who he was _– what he was –_ Walter Longmire would bee dead. But he was not dead, he lived some-where, _some-when_ in time, with his beautiful blond haired woman that looked as lovely as the angels the Preacher Simmons of _RiverStone_ talked about in the town squares.

His friend was a lucky man.

Brown wolf chuffed, as though he knew something that he did not and he clearly had no intention of sharing.

His mood was to good to waste on a pointless argument.

_Perhaps the white-bead will speak to you again someday_ , brown wolf confessed with a wolfish grin that made Standing Bear drop his eyes and shrug. It was hard to pretend that he did not care if it did or did not.

_Nothing is promised but now_ , Standing Bear shrugged. _I was glad to have known him -- it is enough._

Brown wolf also shrugged. _You are right, of course, nothing is promised._ _But there is room for possibility._

Standing Bear rose from his bedroll, stretching and yawning with a heart ten times lighter than it had been when he laid down for sleep. There was lightness to his limbs and the dark curtain was lifted from his mind. He did not feel so heavy anymore; something bordering on happiness crept around the edges of his mind and he embraced it.

“You look well,” Still Water remarked, shaking him from his dream memories. 

He nodded. “I feel...well.”

“That is good, I dreamed that there were buffalo over that hill,” Still Water said, already packing up her bedroll. “We must move quickly.”

Standing Bear did not argue. If she said buffalo were waiting over the hill she pointed to he was willing to believe her words. The sooner he could collect their pelts the sooner he could see them settled with the Blackfoot clan. 

“It was your dream, lead the way Still Water,” Standing Bear suggested, moving to follow her lead. He did not quite smile at the small, pleased look of surprised pleasure on her face, but it was close.

“Where are we going?” Dancing Fawn yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Someone said buffalo.”

“My, what big ears you have, Dancing Fawn,” Standing Bear chided, tugging at the bottom of her lobe causing her to squeal and clutch at his hand. 

“Oh, Standing Bear!” she groaned, swatting his hand away. 

He held up his hands in surrender, backing off. 

Still Water, who had been watching their interaction, blinked hard. Her hand came up to cover her mouth as laughter spilled out. It was her first laugh in many months, sharp and clear as a church bell ringing in the town squares. Standing Bear did smile then. It was good to hear real laughter from Still Water. 

They broke camp and in short order headed westward towards the gray-green hills that Still Water had seen in her dream. On the other side, there stood a herd of buffalo. A sea of brown that awaited them among the green shoots beginning to pop through the blanket of white.

Even the darkest winter _ended._

Still Water’s vision was proof that the Creator had not forgotten them. Still Water laughed, listing to Dancing Fawn’s constant stream of chatter as a new chapter began. He walked straight into the soft glow of the rising sun that painted the lands in as many colors as little Dancing Fawn’s horses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: 
> 
> Dear Readers,
> 
> The theme of this chapter was “moving on” and “burying the dead in all ways” and how the “dead” can be an old way of life versus the new one that is springing up like sprigs of green shoots on a “snow blanketed” mountain. Further behind the scene tidbit: the quote Walter Longmire references “the outside of a horse being good for the inside of a man” in one of the episodes inspired me to add names and detail to the horses acquired from the massacre at Black Canyon. In the background Dancing Fawn’s three horses become her “unlicensed” therapy animals. 
> 
> _I have been (very) uncertain about the latest chapters and having mentioned that, thoughts if a person is so inclined, would be welcome._


	13. A Series of Collected Events: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1725-1726 and a lot of small, and not so small matters, are brought to the forefront as Standing Bear and company go about surviving on the outskirts of _RiverStone._
> 
> Here exist small town prejudices, drunken heart-sore trappers, and ne’er do well sorts.

#  _**Wyoming, RiverStone: Summer 1726**_

#  _**REMINISCING ON NEW LIFE**_

Still Waters child came into the world screaming like a banshee and there was not a single hard heart in the room. Not even the racist doctor who had begrudgingly tweaked the baby's' small button nose and grumped in a decidedly grandfatherly manner. Standing Bear turned his face away, wiping at tears of joy. It felt _good_ to cry from sheer happiness.

He did not wish to be observed, no matter the cause, and swiped roughly at his face. Dancing Fawn caught him mid-act her own eyes brimming with happy tears that spilled down her round cheeks. She said nothing, though, merely gripped his wrist for a moment in solidarity before stepping forward to crowd beside the newest member of her family next to Tall Oak.

The older sister was already cooing over the baby. 

Standing bear could see that this child would be well-loved; that everything was as it should be. There would be no _White Star’s_ to interfere in its life and he was pleased. A simple joy had rested in his heart since Still Water had begun to show. Her belly became as round as the full-moon as her time neared.

_New life is a blessing_ , brown wolf had agreed.

Standing Bear had not refused this, bowing to brown wolf's wisdom in the matter for they were now in strong accord most days. _Yes, a gift that something good has come from so much bad._

It had become clear to them all following the successful buffalo hunt that Still Water had chosen to keep the life growing within. Standing Bear, his eyes stinging for gladness, quietly ghosted at the edges of the room so as not to disturb the new mother and child. It was an old habit, and hard to shake. 

On the outskirts Standing Bear fondly looked on, recalling how Still Water had made her choice clear to them, speaking with a voice that promised unshakable confidence. He could have sworn he had seen the shadow of her mother, Hawk Woman, place a comforting hand upon her shoulder when she had done it, too. 

Speaking like a born leader of her people. 

After that fateful decision was made Tall Oak had become more and more protective. The ice in her veins had at last begun thawing as her eternal winter faded into a brisk spring breeze. It was as though the prospect of being part of nurturing a new life after all that had been stolen had woken her from the bitterness that had been working away at her spirit. 

If one good thing had come from _Black Canyon_ it was this small, squalling life that Still Water cradled in her arms, exhausted, sweaty, and smiling wide enough to split her face. Her eyes were lit up from within in a manner he had never seen before. 

Standing Bear wondered as he watched mother and child if this was the look that had been on his mother's face when she decided that he was born of her blood, too. That she would keep him for her own and decided against sending him back to the afterlife. His heart gave a small kick in his chest at his wonderings but he did not sink to depression. He was long past the brief sorrow that surrounded his conception and birth. No. This time, like the waxing and waning of the seasons, his hour of dour solemnity had passed on. It was many years in the past and, while not forgotten, it did not pain him overmuch. Swift Coyote had loved him ten times enough, had _given_ thrice as much, to make up for that brief moment's hesitation by the river. 

Her death still pained him all these months later; it was a scar upon his heart. His spirit grew heavy thinking of her passing. But he did not linger overmuch. He acknowledged what he had lost but his thoughts no longer sunk him into black pits of emptiness. His mother had _loved_ him, despite everything about his conception. She had loved him enough to die so that he had a chance at life. It was not the one he had wanted, but it was the one he had. He was loved, and with each breath, he lived to draw into his lungs he was reminded. Still Water, it seemed, was strong enough to love her child, too. 

Despite everything. 

He admired that about the woman. She had a strong resolve when her mind was made up. He recalled the night when Still Water had made her choice known to them all. They had all been sprawled out on the pelts laid down in the largest tipi which had been assigned to Still Water as the daughter of the matriarch and eldest among them at 27 winters. Only a year older than Standing Bear, and 9 years older than Tall Oak, but none cared to contest her for the right. Standing Bear would have rather slept with his back to a tree and shaking in the cold than take _anything_ from the women; their acceptance of him had brought a peace he had not thought to know ever again. There was little he would not see done for them.

Dancing Fawn had watched as he carved away at the wood. Standing Bear did it to pass the time more than anything else, though sometimes they did sell them in the town. Her face began lighting up as the carving's shape took form.

She was a little old for such things, perhaps, but he could not resist the joy that lit up her face when he gave her such things. In her defense, he had gotten much better at it, enough that the mane of the stallion was defined and the muscles in the arched neck were readily apparent. He had based the likeness of the carving on Kiwidinok, who even as they all rested grazed close with one ear constantly flicking towards his small master.

The girl had been right about the blood-red quarter horse, he was _fast_.

And brave. 

If not for the horse Kiwidinok’s fierce courage and loyalty Dancing Fawn would have been buried in the coldest month of winter. 

Standing Bear believed as surely as the rising of the sun it would have been the breaking of them all if she had died; life pounded out of her by merciless hooves as the massive buffalo had stampeded past. 

And for what purpose? The reckless curiosity that every man, woman, and child, suffered from at least once in their life? It would have been a thoroughly pointless death. It would have cut the heart out of them all. 

They had found the animals grazing on the other side of the hill, just as Still Water’s vision said they would. However, during the hunt, the buffalo had swerved unexpectedly heading straight for Dancing Fawn who had been watching the animals from a small cliff off to the side. She had edged closer than she should have been when no one was looking. Standing Bear would have been angry if he had not been so relieved that she did not die for her carelessness.

She could have been trampled by the stampede. If not for her beloved horse she would have been. Kiwidinok, sensing trouble, had broken free from the herd and reached Dancing Fawn only moments before the buffalo. She had leaped onto his back and he had run like he had wings upon his feet keeping ahead of the buffalo and then swerving to the side allowing the buffalo to race past him and his small rider who clung to his mane. 

_“You foolish girl!” Standing Bear had thundered, having reached her well before her sisters could have. He had been too far to save her; fast as he was it would not have been enough. Kiwidinok stamped his front hooves and Standing Bear backed off, but not before pulling her down to the ground and off of the large quarter horses back._

_“You could have died.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Dancing Fawn had mumbled, her chin wobbling and eyes over bright. She looked suitably crestfallen. “That was a dangerous thing to do. You and Kiwidinok could have both been trampled to death,” he had scolded in a harsh whisper._

_Her own life might have seemed inconsequential to her at the moment but Standing Bear knew full well she would not forget that she had endangered Kiwidinok. It would be that, which tempered her future actions._

_It was this realization that tipped her over the edge and she began crying, wet tears streaming down her face as she leaned into the heavily breathing quarter horse that nickered and nudged her head with blatant fondness. Standing Bear, still angry, did not let his amusement show on his face. But it was there, hidden below the stern mask he had put on._

_Kiwidinok was thoroughly unmoved by his glower, and he privately suspected, displeased with him for the tears he had wrought. The stallion nickered and nudged at Dancing Fawn until she hiccupped a laugh, only then relenting, returning to his usual aloof manner, head held high in the wind and his keen ears flicking forward and back, as though scanning the landscape for other such misadventures._

_This was how her sisters found them, and it was a testament to their trust that they understood he only wished for her to realize the gravity of her actions._

_He had felt terrible for having been the cause. Yet, a s much as he hated the sight of her tears, Standing Bear dreaded the thought of her willow slim body lying broken in the white snow even more._

_The little fawn is growing up, she no longer listens as she once did, brown wolf had chortled._

_Standing Bear incensed but knowing it for the truth, said nothing missing the days when she followed at his heels. He even missed her words rushing over him in a small tidal wave. Her young bright face fixed on him as if, by some miracle, he could make everything right again._

That was the day Dancing Fawn became _Loved By Horses_ to more than just Standing Bear; there was no overlooking her way with the large animals which followed her like obedient dogs. She had not been meant to be where she was and her sisters were loudly upset with her, and then they were loudly pleased that they were not preparing her broken body for burial. Her sisters also no longer complained about her smelling like a horse or how the animals lingered like watchful dogs at her side. 

Beautiful and aloof Kiwidinok had saved his little master's life and no one would soon forget.

It was soon after that that Still Water had found the words she wanted to share with them all as they huddled beneath thin blankets as the wind outside howled.

_Still Water had explained it very clearly to her sisters. “The wrongs of the father are not of the child’s doing, you know this better than most Standing Bear.” She had looked to him for a moment before continuing._

_“It was why Swift Coyote claimed you for her own, of her flesh and her blood. So too will this child be born of my blood and my flesh and grow into adulthood under my teachings. How could I keep them from the chance to live -- for something done not by their will?”_

_Tall Oak, regal and astute of thought had said: “I understand, it will be good to see life after so much death.”_

He had said nothing, it was not his place, but he agreed with Tall Oak. But that did mean it had all been sunshine and roses to reach that happy moment of welcoming a new life; nothing could be farther from the truth. Standing Bear watched as the youngest sister held the baby, cooing delightedly and bouncing it on her hip, before returning it to her eldest sister's arms. As with all things, there had been good times mixed in with the bad.

Standing Bear folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the wall in the recovery room that the doctor had been _obliged_ to set aside for them. He recalled Preacher Simmons and his strongly-worded rebuke to a certain personage in _RiverStone_ that had set everything in motion. A hard grin curled at the corner of his mouth.

Preacher Jeremiah Simmons surely knew how to put the fear of _God_ into his parishioners with or without his pulpit to stand behind. It was the first time in Standing Bear’s life that the white man's God had worked in _his_ favor.

He was not an overnight convert, willing to speak prayers to the white-mans God, but he was _grateful_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> I am trying a (temporary) new style. "A Series of Collected Events" will span from the groups arrival to RiverStone to their leaving, and under what circumstances, and wherever that leads.
> 
> I am curious....any latent thoughts on how I've crafted _"brown wolf"_ as a both same-and-separate entity, whom Standing Bear can converse with? 
> 
> Behind the scenes tidbit: When originally drafting "SOTS" I had only planned to make him able to "shifting" to the animal and convey a sort of "oneness" with the spirit, therefore setting Standing Bear apart from other skinwalkers. Instead, he's become something a bit different.
> 
> Kudos, comments, & queries are welcome!


	14. A Series of Collected Events: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1725 and RiverStone was hip deep in winter snows. A shot rings out into the dark and Standing Bear investigates who had intruded on their safe haven.

#  _**Wyoming, RiverStone: Winter 1725** _

#  _**Trapper In Distress** _

**_Backtrack:_ **

They carved out a good life near the town called _RiverStone_. Their chosen land was tightly wedged between _Sweet Ridges_ and _Sweet Water Mountain,_ in the place Hawk Woman had called _Ma'tää'e_ , Forest Wood, because the area between was thick with mighty trees that shot high into the sky. They had grown undisturbed by man for such a length of time that on some nights it looked as if the branches swept against the stars as they shone in the light of the waxing moon.

Upon returning from hunting, he enjoyed laying down beneath the leafy canopy, weighted with snow, and staring up at the night sky, counting the seven stars of the _Pleiades_. They were the looking glass through which he replayed the past, those times when after the work was done Swift Coyote pulled him to her lap and began speaking. It was a small joy, perhaps, but he took what he was given for when he looked up into the pinpricks of the light shining down above, he remembered the story his mother had told him surrounding the stars. A bitter sweet pang nipped at the memory that drifted over him, bringing with it a rush of love.

Swift Coyote had been a good mother, if imperfect, and he had loved her so. 

“Long ago a chieftain had a fine-looking daughter called Shines Bright. She was visited in the night by a young suitor but she did not know him and this concerned her. So, Shines Bright placed red paint near her bed to uncover the truth. When her handsome suitor came to her, she dipped her hand in the red pain and as they embraced placed her mark all along his back and over his heart so that she might recognize him in the daylight. Shines bright asked her father to call all the young men to dance before his tent so that she might know her suitor. They all came, but she did not see her red-marked suiter dancing. No, instead she saw her father's dog with a red mark upon his back. She was angry, very angry at this revelation and returned to her tent. This ended the festivities for everyone. The next day, pulled by a string she took the dog away from camp. She hit the creature and it broke loose. Running fast and fast from her angry heart. Seven months later she bore the fruits of her strange union: seven puppies born of her flesh and blood. Shines Bright was angry still, and perhaps heartbroken to be so deceived, see? So. She told her mother to take them away, to kill them. But her mother was kind and spared them, giving them a small shelter where they might live and grow. In time, Shines Bright went to see her offspring and to play with them. When they were big enough to run, the old dog returned for his young and he took them away. Shines Bright asked her mother to make seven pairs of moccasins for her so that she might search for them. As soon as this was done, she set off. After much toil and trouble, she saw a tent in the distance. The youngest came to her and so said _‘Mother, Father wants you to go back. We are going home. You cannot come.’_ Shines Bright did not accept right off and said this, _‘No! Where you go, I go.’_ She took the little one and carried him on her hip, the very same way I carried you! Upon entering the tent, she saw that there was a handsome young man, as if waiting for her arrival, but he took no notice of her but to offer a little meat and drink. No matter how much she accepted the food did not grow less. What a marvel, yet? Hmm. Where was I?” she had asked, tapping her chin as if forgetful.

He had known better, of course.

It was all part of the way she told stories, involving him in them as much as possible. 

“The tent!” he had said in an excited hush, speaking low so as not to wake White Star. 

“Right you are, Howling Wolf. Shines Bright tied the little pup to her belt with a sturdy string. Now, when morning came, she thought it would be well. But it was not to be. The tent had vanished and with it her pups. She followed the tracks and again came upon them. It happened four times in this way. But the fourth times the tracks were stopped and she knew that was it. There would be no more tracks. No more pups to hold with strings and motherly affection, which bloomed too late. She looked up into the sky and there she saw her seven pups. They had become stars, the Pleiades.” 

“That is a sad story, mother,” he had said, leaning into her warm embrace. 

Swift Coyote had been very quiet for a time. “It is really, though? They parted ways, perhaps, her and her little pups. But she had known a mothers’ love in the end and such a thing never dies, no matter the distance between.” 

“We will never part, right mother?” he asked, full of childish innocence he had not been able to see the tears in her eyes for what they were, or the tightness with which she had hushed him and not answered. He had never been a more consented boy than when listening to his mother sharing the stories of his people, when he was sleepy and warm in her arms the rest of the world, and words it contained, had always wounded him less. 

He roughly wiped at his face, scrubbing away the tears that dampened his cheeks.

Standing Bear reminded himself that it had been a good memory of him and his mother. And it had been. A call back to simpler, kinder, times when his mother's words were enough to speak away the entirety of the world into something distant and small. He missed her fiercely.

Swift Coyote always knew what was the right thing to do. 

_She was not born knowing, life taught Swift Coyote and it will teach you_ , brown wolf counseled, in a generous mood after their long afternoon run through the woods after the bore which had filled their bellies for dinner. 

There had been some debate over the choice at the beginning. Tall Oak and Still Water had been reserved about living so near to the settlement at first but they warmed to the idea when they had discovered a freshwater source that bubbled from within the ground. There was also a natural cliff formation which served as a good shelter, this helped to settle the matter of whether they would stay at _RiverStone_ for the duration of the winter or travel onward to _Gilligan’s Trading Post,_ which was nearer to _Black Oak_. He was not ready to return to that place either but he had not said so plainly.

The sisters had seen too much of him laid bare already. He wished to keep some things private. 

The river which cut through _Black Oak_ would awaken the ghost of his love and he was not prepared for that yet. Beside its banks in the tall grass of autumn leaves was where he and Thunder Boy made love for the last time. Its memory was still wounding. 

He was pleased when they had relented without much argument on the matter. They had all been worn thin after Dancing Fawn’s fling with death at the buffalo hunt and they had conceded quickly to silence him. 

He was alright with that, a victory conceded was still victory. It was a good spot he discovered. Their corner of the world seemed a separate place almost, walled off from the horrors they had left behind at _Black Canyon._ Horrors that still woke Tall Oak in the dead of night and wore away at his own heart like a grindstone, if he let them. This new place was their haven. It was some distance from the small settlement. The natural formation of rocks that were as deep as a lodge might have been and twice as wide provided shelter. Even better, it was one they did not need to build for themselves.

There _had_ been the small matter of the bad-tempered grizzly who inhabited it before their arrival, but it had been handled, and now they were one bear pelt the richer for the confrontation. 

The wheel of fortune had turned, this time in their favor. The winter was harsh but they had survived worse. It was not the _Time of Starving_ they had undergone six years back when game had been scarce and the lands unforgiving. It would be well soon. They had all they needed to survive.

The winter sweeping through the land was beautiful in its way, a cold, clean whiteness that spread as far across the land as the naked eye could see.

Little by little the earth was being washed clean, and with the passing of each day the past was being buried. He could only look forward to the day when it did not hang so heavily around his neck. 

Standing Bear leaned against the rock formation that framed the exit to their rock lodge, the world outside howling madly, and looked out into the dark. He felt the dark looking back but he was no longer perturbed by the notion. He had no fear of the dark, within or without, it was now his to command. As he had vowed to himself and brown wolf in what felt ages ago, if he were to be a monster, _a skinwalker_ , he would put himself to good use. He would be _The Standing Bear_ the three women under his protection deserved until such a time as he was not needed. 

It gave him a new purpose: this reconciliation of self. 

Confidence, too. 

Dancing Fawn, for once, did not look at him with such sad, forlorn, eyes anymore. His bad dreaming had begun to fade, like so much smoke and ash scattered by an iron will. From this distance not even _his_ eyes could see the flicker of torchlight that burned long into the night. The whites, it appeared, feared the dark. 

_Not so strange, perhaps, knowing what thing exist beneath the pale light of the moon_ , brown wolf conceded. Standing Bear knew him to be ambivalent, he had seen the work of too many white trappers to be otherwise. 

A trapper killed _brown wolf's_ mate, _black paw_ , and he met with Lame Bull soon after concluding life as he had known it. 

The settlement and its trade had been a boon to them in such times. At first Standing Bear went alone, scouting how receptive this _RiverStone_ settlement would prove. He found it to be what he expected, so long as he had worthwhile trade to bring, did not look or walk too close to the white women, and did not overstay his welcome, the town was...tolerant. Because of his fur and trinkets trade, he had a value they could profit from, and he knew all this. What secrets their eyes did not give away, the hushed whispering of them, and their wives, did. It had not bothered him overmuch. He too was only here for the trade they might bring him so he could begin collecting a cache of good for his three companions. 

The crack of a rifle cut through the night. 

Standing Bear waited and listened to the stillness of night, his muscles tensing in readiness. A minute later and another shot was fired off, still far away enough that it need not be his trouble. 

“Standing Bear?” Dancing Fawn asked, lifting her head from her bedroll. _“He-'nehe?_ What is it?” she asked, sleepy and expectant of her safety. 

And why shouldn’t she. 

_“He-’nehe, brother, if you are yee naagloshii now, and still my protector, what is there in this world I have to fear?” she had asked._

_He had not had an answer for her, but was relieved that she had not spoken her words in front of her two sisters. Theirs was a fragile harmony that he did not wish to chance._

“I will go and see, stay here, _axaa'éhéme.”_

He paused, fixing a stern look on his face as he looked back at her over his shoulder as he snatched up his rifle. “I mean it, Dancing Fawn, remain here.” 

Dancing Fawn laid her head down, the blankets moving as her shoulders lifted and fell below the blankets. “I will stay.” 

Standing Bear heard her words and carried the image of her trusting face with him as he stalked off into the dark, rifle in hand and his sense on high alert. If not for her waking he might have let the trouble pass him by. But not after. She thought _so much_ of him and he hates to disappoint. 

His eyes, which pierced the darkness, saw clearly in the night and his ears which were in tune with the land heard the deep rumble of a bear, the snap and crack of brush and small trees being crushed under its weight as it moved through night at a fair speed. It was not headed towards him. He paused, scenting the air, and caught the scent of whiskey, rum, and sickly-sweet perfume. 

It could only be one man venturing this near to where he made his home.

But for what purpose? 

_You will have to deter the bear if you wish to know the answer to your question_ , brown wolf grunted. _Though he is likely simply bewildered with drink._

Standing Bear crouched down, his hands digging into the earth seeking connection. Balance. _Likely so._

_I have no more need of bear pelts now,_ Standing Bear reasoned. _I will only scare the creature and perhaps remind the trapper of his senses, assuming he has not wasted them all on drink._

Standing Bear lifted his hands from the ground, cupping them around his mouth as he threw back his head and let loose such a noise of sound and fury that birds flocked from nearby trees and every living thing huddled within its den or rabbit hole all but ceased to breath. The bear, an ornery fellow, grunted in return but the crashing about ceased. It was ornery, but not without good sense. It departed, wishing no part of tangling with the likes of a skinwalker on a dark cold night. It turned away, moving deeper into the woods and farther from the human settlement. 

_It will live longer this way_ , Standing Bear reasoned. Brown wolf was silent so long that he became uneasy, shifting on the balls of his feet as he crouched among the thistles and bushes. _How your kind ever mistook you for evil proves that all two legged’s are oftentimes fools. You have a good heart in you, one that not even crossed bloodlines can pollute. You kill to protect, to eat, to provide. This is the natural way of things._

Standing Bear blinked, surprised by the words of the spirit wolf: he was not known for flattery. Pain stabbed at his heart for in that moment he was reminded of the kindness of Thunder Boy. He had spoken words of a similar nature on many occasions. A pity that at the time they fell on deaf ears. 

He shook his head, dispelling his thoughts, when he heard a man groaning and calling out loud as might be, saying: “Get your red arse ov’r here, Standing Bear! I been lookin’ for you all over this mountain!” 

Standing Bear melted from the shadow, leaning down over the prone white man, enjoying the way his eyes widened and his hand fluttered for his discarded rifle. Standing Bear did not appreciate the man's loud, abrasive manner. 

“I am here now, Omar.” 

Omar licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “Yes, you are. By the way, what in the hell was that noise earlier? Wasn’t like any bear, or wolf, or coyote I ever heard before.” 

“If you do not know _‘best trapper in Wyoming,’_ ” he said with obvious sarcasm laced thick through his words. “Then how should I, newly arrived, know the answer to this question?” he asked, with a bland frown stamped onto his face. 

It was neither an answer nor a lie, which was how Standing Bear preferred to keep it. His wrongs were stacked high enough that he kept to his word and abided by it even more than he had before his change. It seemed only right. Besides, while he was allis with Omar Creighton he owed him nothing more than a _little_ friendliness. Certainly not such truth as would undo this new life he had settled into at _RiverStone_. Even the hard crag faced trappers and mountain men from the backcountry could become superstitious extremists when faced with the unknown in their midst. 

“Will you at least help a man to his feet?” Omar grunted. 

Standing Bear canted his head to the side. “Are you drunk?” 

Omar groaned. “Oh, don’t you start with me, Bear!” 

Standing Bear folded his arms across his chest, waiting. 

Omar grunted. 

“No... well...maybe. Just a little.” 

Standing Bear muttered unkind things below his breath, grunting wordlessly when Omar challenged him to speak louder or not at all. “Do you want help or not?” he asked, extending his hand to the drunk trapper. 

Omar grumbled and took the hand offered, allowing Standing Bear to help him to his feet which wobbled precariously. 

Standing Bear considered his options: take Omar Creighton to his hotel room in RiverStone, leave him to the next hungry creature that came along, or take him back to his own home. 

His nose scrunched at the idea of the drunk, known for his loose lips, knowing his exact location. 

Standing Bear decided on a fourth choice. 

He had constructed a hunters’ lean-to at the edge of _Ma'tää'e,_ it was an hour walk from town for a strong man. Less, for him. It would do well enough for the night's purposes and provide enough shelter for a healthy man to survive until morning. 

“And you came here to find me at such a late hour. Why?” he asked, effortlessly bearing more than half Omar’s weight as they traveled by the light of the moon.

Unsurprisingly Omar was too distracted to answer, his mind jumbled with alcohol. “You are very strong -- have I mentioned?” Omar grumbled. “I hate it -- tha’ks,” Omar grunted, then, thankfully, fell silent. 

Standing Bear shoved the trapper into the lean-to throwing his own warm cloak lined with wolf fur over the man to calm the shivering of his body. Omar argued against it, but Standing Bear ignored his protesting. 

The cold, he knew, would not kill him. It would be deeply unpleasant, but he would live. Omar, in his current condition, might not. He built a fire to catch the glow of any predator eyes, should they venture to close, and warn them from further approach. While he stood watch the orange flames devoured small twigs and fallen branches, its heat went a long way towards removing the sting of the wind's chilly bite for him as they waited out the passing of the night to day. Pressed further in the lean-to he could see the glimmer of Omar’s eyes as he laid awake. 

“I thought I was dead, y’know?” Omar said, propping himself up on his elbow to fix his companion with a searching look. “I thought to m’self, Omar, this is it you dumb bastard. And then...you just popped out of the dark, pretty as y’please, and just in time.” 

Standing Bear snorted crudely. “Would you have preferred I wait until after the bear had had his say with your drunk carcass?” he queried. 

Omar sniffed. “I am tryin’ to say thank you, you bastard.” 

“So many words for something that needs only one?” Standing Bear shot back, his outward expression stoic, but his hidden self was teasing. 

Omar fell back covering his face with his arm. “We cannot all be laconic bastards -- some of us happen to like conversing!” 

Standing Bear stiffened, the line of his back tensing. Had he been too harsh? He had not thought Omar the sort to take it to heart. He finally looked back at his companion, still awake, though silent. 

Standing Bear leaned back on his elbows, his face turning towards the fire. It’s fiery tendrils dancing shadows across half his face. 

“I meant no offence.” 

He closed his fist around the white-bead, his eyes skating over Omar Creighton, and thought of the strange land he had visited only briefly through the magic of time-walking. The trapper at his side had an uncanny similarity in features to the man, also named Omar, who had driven him and Walter Longmire to the place of healing in their time of need. 

Was it mere coincidence? Or the threads of fate wrapping about him? Meddling, as Haw Woman would have said. 

Again, and again gossamer strings were drawing him to the world that his blue-eyed friend inhabited. 

He could ignore it, move on, but he did not. 

Choice was his, still. 

He could sever the threads that he felt lightly indenting his skin. But he did not. Was it wrong of him? To think of his childhood friend, the man he had become even though they had not had a chance to speak in many years? 

_Thunder Boy would have been jealous_ , he told himself. _Even though there is nothing to be jealous off._ After all, what was the harm in a _little_ admiration for a strong jaw and eyes like river-glass? 

Standing Bear let his mind drift now and again when the sky was blue and the evenings calm, thinking on the man who had brought the touch of magic to his life. 

_Walter Longmire_. 

The man's eyes, he remembered, really were as blue as he had thought when they were children. He had never seen such eyes until he met the boy by the rock and the river. The boy with the blue eyes had become the man with a taste of justice. 

Before him the only strangeness Standing Bear had known had been that of his own blood and uncanny oddities. Walter had, quite unwittingly, brought a little enchantment into his life. Something pure and untainted by _skinwalkers_ and _blood curses_. 

He had been a true friend at a very dark time. 

Standing Bear snuck another look at Omar, still blissfully unaware, staring at the grains in the wood only a few feet from his nose. 

_This is the same man in the same way that the leaf hanging to the tree is the same today as it will be tomorrow._

_I do not understand._

_Time touches us_ _all;_ _nothing remains unchanged forever. There is sameness in this man, and there is difference, too._

Standing Bear sighed beneath his breath. He understood no better but brown wolf would say no more on the matter and he let it go. 

It was easier that way, sometimes. 

Omar coughed, blinking blearily in the dark. 

“Ahhh, don’t mind me, Bear. I’m drunk off my ass. I know you don’t -- talking takes time eh? I’ll get you there yet, just you see…” Omar muttered; his eyes drifting shut. He was asleep as he breathed out his next breath, tapering into a gurgling snore. 

Standing Bear chuckled, shaking his head at the racket Omar made as he lay sleeping. His questions could wait until morning, then he would ask Omar why he was seeking his company into the rough terrain surrounding _Ma'tää'e_ when he could have waited until his next venture into town _._

_What could have been so important?_ He wondered, turning the thought over in his mind as he waited for the deep darkness of night to give way to the gold wash of daylight. It concerned him, this unknowing, but not enough to shake the drunk into wakefulness. He would receive better answers if the man was not addled with drink. 

_He was drunk, maybe he is only seeking a friendly ear…_

Standing Bear scoffed. 

_There are friendlier ears than mine, closer ones too._

Brown wolf gave the animal equivalent of a shrug, sitting back on his haunches. _It is no matter, little skinwalker, morning light will reveal his answers._

_Must you call me that?_

Brown wolf remained silent for so long he thought there would be no reply. 

He was mistaken. 

_No, but I will until such time as you accept yourself. Skinwalker, you think, and shudder. Skinwalker, you speak, and I see your spirit shrivel and twist as though in pain. It is a word -- a power -- no more, no less. When you believe this, only then will I stop._

Standing Bear wrapped his arms around his middle, barely resisting the urge to fold in on himself. Where had gone all his courage? Puff, and it was gone like pale torchlight dunked in an icy water well, leaving him alone in the dark. 

_All would be well_ , he consoled, he would find his way through it. Standing Bear grit his teeth, putting steel into his spine. 

_You will have to wait long._

Brown wolf, again, shrugged and laid down to sleep once more. 

_I have time._

Standing Bear turned back to his earlier wondering. Namely, Omar and his untimely visit. He had not chosen this parcel of land for its ease of access but it's protective structure. Their cave rested atop a hill overlooking the ravines and woods below, approaching unseen was impossible. In the distance a horse whinnied. 

_Kiwidinok_ , he thought, and hoped that Dancing Fawn had done as she promised. The girl and her horses had a way of falling into misadventures if they remained unwatched for too long. He stretched his senses, his hands digging deep into the earth that he might have an inkling of what it was that Dancing Fawn was up to. The wind brought the soft tunes of a childish lullaby to his ears and he smiled, his spirit brimming with unspoken sentiment.

She was only humming to her beloved horses. Though, little did she know, she hummed to _him_ , too. Her young voice was a gentle melody that settled the cold placed in his heart.

It amused him, and _brown wolf_ , to no end. She thought him her protector, when in many ways she was _his_ shield. A shelter raised against his own darkness. 

Morning could not come soon enough so that he could rattle a proper answer from Omar and see what mischief Dancing Fawn and Kiwidinok were planning. Dancing Fawn had the roaming spirit of a wild mustang these days. It never settled for long. 

One moment it was dozing, drifting between awake and asleep and the next a voice hounded his ears with deep chiding. 

“Standing Bear, you fell asleep during your Nightwatch?” an incredulous, anxious young voice demanded and sleep loosened its grip. 

He closed his eyes and counted to ten before addressing Dancing Fawn. “It was fine but now that you are here, I assume you brought provisions?” he asked, fixing her with an expectant look that she shrugged off. 

She grimaced, shooting him a regretful look. She had not thought so far ahead as that. _Again_. He suppressed a sigh and moved on to other matters. The matter of food could wait awhile longer. 

“Where are your sisters?” Standing Bear asked. 

“Down by the river.” 

Omar, clearly having also been woken, rolled out of the lean-to and the grin on his face was insufferable. Before he could intervene, Omar was introducing himself. He was as proper and gentlemanly as he had ever seen the man behave, too. 

“You, little miss, are Dancing Fawn,” Omar said, holding out his hand. 

Dancing Fawn accepted, shaking it vigorously. She grinned and shot him a curious look around the other man. “I did not think he would have mentioned…” 

“The spirited girl with the blood red horse? It came up once, maybe,” Omar confessed. “See, I got your brother three sheets to the wind-” 

Dancing Fawn put her hands on her hips, suddenly less pleased. “Three sheets to the wind? What does this mean? Standing Bear?” she demanded. 

“Ho, ho, overprotective little sister!” Omar crowed. 

“I like you, girl, yes, I do.” 

“He means drunk,” Standing Bear admitted, running a hand over his face. “He got me very drunk. Once.” 

“Ahh! Drunk! I see,” Dancing Fawn exclaimed, her cheer returned once she understood what the men were talking about. 

“This one talks all kidneys of crazy when he’s liquored,” Omar snorted. “Fit for the asylums, crazy.” 

Dancing Fawn arched her brow, shooting him a pointing look to which he shrugged in answer. 

Omar slapped him on the back. “Don’t fret, a man can’t be blamed for what comes out’a his mouth when he’s thoroughly f--” 

Standing Bear’s elbow sharply connected with Omar’s ribs. The man caught clutching at his side dramatically. Omar stared dazedly at Dancing Fawn, his brow drawn in consternation as he tried to figure out what he had done wrong. 

Dancing Fawn looked between them in confusion and Omar nervously backtracked. 

Sweat beading at his brow. 

“Fiddled, thoroughly fiddled, I meant to say!” 

Standing Bear clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to tip him forward on his feet. “Now, what did you come here for Omar?” 

“Right, that.” 

“A band of Cheyenne came through the day before last and they’re still around selling, trading, whatnot in town. Way out here as you are you wouldn’t have gotten the news! The notion to tell you arrived sometime after my third bottle of whiskey...” he admitted ruefully. “And so you have my late sojourn explained.” 

Standing Bear nodded, waiting for the rest. 

Omar shuffled, his face reddening. “I recall some o’ what you said, when you was drunk? About all that happened to your family? I thought – well, I thought to myself if that were me I might want to speak with someone in my own tongue, other Cheyenne men?” he flicked a glance to Dancing Fawn who stood quietly to the side, her watchful eyes taking in everything she saw. 

Omar winked at her, his merry grey eyes twinkling. 

“No offence intended, little lady.” 

“I wondered if it might be of some comfort to you, Standing Bear. See if they might be willing to adopt you and the girls? Even this old drunk knows family to be a mighty important thing.” 

Standing Bear coughed, clearing his voice of the cracks he felt spider webbing in his chest. No tribe would ever have him. Not now, not ever. Omar meant well, though, and that was what mattered. 

“That was uncommonly kind of you.” 

“Yeah, that’s me all over. Omar, the Uncommonly Kind. Hie on back and tell the women. They might wish to speak with some of the women that came down with Chief Walking Sacred.” 

Standing Bear glanced at Dancing Fawn, the faint tip of his head letting her know what he wished for her to do. Dancing Fawn cupped her hands around her mouth and made the call of a lark, letting her sisters who were washing by the river know that they needed to speak. 

This was a good chance to leave; he would not let it pass them by because he would miss their company. They deserved better than that. 

Dancing Fawn’s eyes narrowed when they lighted upon his face and he knew she had predicted his thoughts. 

This could change everything. If the women wished to leave with Chief Walking Sacred, he would not stand in their way. It might well be for the best if they did. 

“Thank you, Omar Creighton.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” the man said, waving aside his thanks. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me, Bear.” 

Standing Bear laughed. 

“Never.” 

Omar grunted and went on his way whistling a jaunty tune as he took the clearest bath back to _RiverStone._ He watched him go his own way, whistling and humming as though he cherished each new day, and every sober breath, for the gift it was. He was a lucky man, Omar Creighton that his eyes where not shaded with the greed that plagued so many others that had journeyed across the sea for new land, new life.

He was a simple man, and Standing Bear liked him, even if he was a drunk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> A canon character appears!!
> 
> _Comments, kudos, & queries are welcome!_
> 
> Sources:
> 
> “The Girl Who Married a Dog.” A Cheyenne Folktale, www.native-languages. org/cheyennestory3.htm. 
> 
> English - Cheyenne, www.cdkc. edu/cheyennedictionary/index-english/main.htm.


	15. A Series of Collected Events: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the winter of 1725 Omar Creighton was caught thinking about a lot of things; among them are two men with the ribbons of fate twisted around their wrists.

#  _**Wyoming, RiverStone: Winter 1725** _

#  _The Twice Born and the Ribbon of Fate_

_POV Omar Creighton:_

The sun was rising over the west casting a wash of orange-gold over the Indian’s refuge. It sure looked pretty by the light of day -- but he knew better to trespass where he wasn’t welcome. Not that he could blame them much. He’d been around enough, _seen_ enough, to respect a little healthy distrust. It was liable to keep a man, or woman, alive in the west. The two older women were awfully squirrelly about going into town from what he saw. He could name three reasons off the top of his head but they didn’t need spelling out. There was no call to upset them. He didn’t take no offense, either.

He wasn’t some city-boy dandy that he didn’t see the problems that cropped up from the mingling of races. Some were malcontent God-fearing folks, angry about one thing or another. And believed they had a right to their anger. And then? Some were plain shitty luck.

He’d come abreast of a small Shoshone band wiped out almost to the last woman and child -- bad blankets their Medicine Man, White Owl, had said telling him of how they had burned the fabric that had been traded. Mostly, it had been too late for that to do much good but Omar kept his trap shut and hoped for the best. Maybe old White Owl was right. He was the one who could converse with the spirits. It could be that he knew stuff ordinary folk didn’t; wouldn’t be the first time the Indians had known things about the land and healing of wounds that others didn’t.

There were some that thought _leeching_ was the way to go, and others, well, said a prayer and thumbed their rosary leaving it in the hands of God. Having had broken bones and a few lead pieces dug out of his flesh, Omar had cherry-picked his healing process: give him the Indian medicine, the white man's tinctures if they were on hand, and should some charitable sort offer a prayer?

He wasn’t one to thumb his nose at God. 

Any God, really. 

Omar hoped he was wrong and that White Owl was right. He would deeply enjoy being wrong just this one time. It would be a right shame for so many to die for no reason at all. That, and they were fair trading partners. That was going to put a stint in his pocket, but he’d get by. He didn’t stick around to see who was right. He kept riding till he came across a prospering settlement near _Aspen’s Trading Post_. Two hours into his drinking he’d heard three local boys boasting how they’ve solved the _Indian Problem._

Well, shit. 

It seemed it had been _malcontents_ to blame after all.

**_Luck Be A Lady, Saloon: Somewhere in Wyoming_ **

The bar was half-empty; just a few drunks whispering to themselves in corners and a tall quiet fellow. He was big and broad-shouldered with a brown Stetson tipped low over his face. He was sitting at the far end with a wall at his back. Only thing at odds with his rough and rugged apparel was the thin yellow ribbon tied around his wrist. It too had seen better days. Omar’s eyes had been drawn to it, unable to look away, as the man quietly drummed his finger against the crusted table. Thump-thump, thump-thump, as if it was an old habit he couldn’t break.

Gunslinger, he had figured, from the almost-constant twitch in his left eye. If a man was any good at that particular business and people got to knowing it, well, there were always some wanting to be known as _better_. He left that man well enough alone. He had enough troubles of his own without the troubles of others being heaped on his back. As he was clearing the road-dust from his throat with whiskey shots _the Sight_ crept upon him in a way it hadn’t in years. His hand took to shaking something awful and his head pounded as images seared themselves into his mind's eyes.

Never let it be said gifts came without their prices. 

_...A blood-stained yellow ribbon tied in a dainty bow, dirt streaked blond hair crushed under a man's bootheel...a woman lying dead among sprigs of lavender below the steps of a porch to some fine house...she’d caught a bullet in the head...an old cowboy with red boots and eyes colder than a Wyoming winter standing over her grave and shaking hands with her husband…her husband, screaming into the black until it seemed the very life went out of him...the silver glint of a gun in a red haze of death…._

“Shit!” Omar cursed, spilling whiskey on his sleeve. Several eyes shot in his direction and he pretended that he didn’t feel the glare, lazily reaching for another shot. _‘Son, never show weakness in the middle of a wolf den.’_

The most useful piece of advice his father had shared with him before he had his heart eaten by a female wolfkind. 

He covertly glanced in the direction of the gunslinger and their gazes locked; it was like looking into a bottomless well meeting those bitter-cold eyes. There was nothing soft left in them. The best parts of that man with the yellow ribbon died with his woman. 

_‘He’s never gonna know who did the killing,’_ Omar had thought, his mouth tightening in a hard line. His stomach flopped like a fish on the line but he silenced the annoying wriggle of his atrophied conscience. _‘Not my friend, not my problem.’_

There was nothing to be done -- even if he had wanted to. And he didn’t. He’d tried often enough to know no one would listen. Nothing ever changed. These rough range types didn’t want some _‘seer’_ spouting gobbly-gook at them. 

“Mind your own damn business,” he had muttered to himself. 

He’d slammed his whiskey shot down hard, more so than he’d planned and the bartender flicked him a curious glance to which he grunted and motioned for another. It was quickly delivered. No one else looked at him of course. He was the bartender’s golden ticket. Money in the pocket so to speak, of course he paid attention. Omar was edging towards drunkenness; he had looked travel-worn and his class of clothes marked him as a man of the mountains, not the town.

Hell, with his beard, some were liable to think him a half-breed.

It wouldn’t bother him terribly except that that kind of thinking tended to slam doors in his face that might otherwise be open. A good wash and trim and he’d be the right kind of disreputable for most folks to tolerate. No one gave a shit what a drunken nobody did or said or heard. And that right there? It was just how he liked it.

“See, see I told ya’ if the squaw don’t want to be funnin’ with me she don’t have to! I bet she’s not so pretty covered in spots, eh boys?” a golden-haired youngster had crowed, slapping his two clinger-on’s on their backs.

“So that’s why you traded with the old Indian!” the smallest had said, a sallow, dark-haired boy, trying to get in on the game. His older companions had ignored him, grinning and joking among themselves. Those boys looked so proud about what they had done; as if it were the greatest thing ever. Taking a life.

To stupid, or to cruel to feel the weight of it.

He wanted to smack their front teeth out, see how well they could bray and prance after that. 

As if a stung pride was an excuse enough for spreading death and disease with such sickening cheer that they were crowing about it in their town bar. Maybe it was, at that, to some. It might have happened that it was shit like this that kept him from towns. And socializing, which his dear mother was so fond of back home. 

The gunslinger was looking at the boys and for the first time there was a flicker in those iced over blues. It went out fast, a candle blown with a single whisper of breath against its heat. For a long still moment Omar thought he might drill them on the spot.

Just for the principle of it. He didn’t.

The tall, broad-shouldered man had just _looked_. Long and hard and mean enough that the boys took notice and quieted down some. Dogs cowed by their alpha the boys slunk further into their own little corner, and whatever they were saying he couldn’t hear it. The gunslinger got up, slow and easy as a wolf sliding back to its feet, and silently walked out of the bar. He never said a single word the whole time he’d been there. Omar never learned his name and he never saw the man again but he recalled the blood-red haze of the moon that night and the sound of a single shot ringing out somewhere across the prairie. Maybe that old gunslinger knew what he knew. 

The man was never going to find the one who’d done the killing of the woman with the yellow ribbon. The boys become louder with the old gunslinger no longer sitting in his dark corner giving them the stink-eye. 

He had tried excusing them, and the generation they represented. Maybe they had been raised cruel and selfish. Maybe they had been done wrong by an Indian, and they got the idea in their pea-brains that one Indian was as good -- or as bad -- as another. He tried. _They were boys; young, stupid, boys who hadn’t seen enough of life to know that it ought to be cherished. That it ought not be taken without sufficient cause,_ he told himself. 

It didn’t take. He couldn’t make himself swallow it.

He’d slammed down three more drinks, and shaken his head, glad for the burn as it went down his throat. He wasn’t getting soft. More likely the world was just getting harder. That’s what he told himself, sitting alone at the bar trying to keep a low profile. He considered taking what he’d overheard to the local sheriff but he didn’t. It wouldn’t do any good except for labeling him as a snitch and a traitorous land worshipper if he was seen taking the Indians side. There were plenty of white settlers that were eyeing the Indian lands with greedy eyes. All the better for them, if a few dropped like flies from pestilence.

It would come to no good. He hoped he didn’t live to see it come to pass but he didn’t think he was that lucky. 

Born under a dark star, he was. 

Omar had swallowed past a tight throat, his mind flashing to White Owl’s eldest daughter, lying so still that he knew she would never rise from her sickbed. She’d had a beauty, yes, a real beauty to her dainty features and still blossoming body. And she was dead, because of a boy who didn’t know how to swallow his pride, and those damned newspaper mudslingers inciting ordinary folks. White Owl didn’t know but he’d sold his goods at less than half price, just the once because he wasn’t actually a soulless husk of flesh and blood.

The old brave’s grief had been stamped like a dark thundercloud over his face, reaching out and pricking at Omar’s own sunken conscience. 

Three days after Omar Creighton left down the golden-haired youngster fell off his horse and cracked open his skull. 

Dead on impact, nothing anyone could have done. Except, perhaps, him. He could have said something -- or tried. But he didn’t. Of the lives he’d taken, this hadn’t weighed him overmuch. That boy was an Indian killer just as much as those who took and put bounties on Indian scalps. Some offered up to 10 dollars apiece. Someday it was going to be some shark-eyed Government official doing the offering. 

_The Sight_ was coming back, dammit. 

He’d been glad to see it go the first time but there was little use crying over spilled milk. What was done was done. _It_ wasn’t something that could just be wished away like the flower seeds of a dandelion. How he wanted for it to work so simply, so easily, as that. He hated the gruesome visions that clouded his sight. Scalping. It was backroom dealings, mostly, for now. But he’d seen those kinds of transactions in the back of saloons and bars across the west: in such places where white settlers perceived a threat in their red neighbors. And if _the Sight_ was correct, as it tended to be, someday it would become a legal transaction. 

Omar had known, beforehand, what would happen: a series of events that would lead to death. A boy was practicing with his gun. The youngster from the bar had a nervous horse, his rider was a damn fool that dug his spur too hard, it would hear the shot and rear back. It wouldn’t end there, the horse would see a barking dog at the porch and buck. The kid was rag-dolled from the saddle. Blood spurts into the air, soaking into the dirt and the rock collided with enough force to crack his skull. 

Omar’s mind was still ringing with _the Knowing_ , White Owl’s daughter and so many others dead. He heard their last indrawn breath as life flitted from their bodies. And for that he said nothing. 

He liked to think maybe there was some kind of cosmic justice in the world. If he had been meant to share the youngsters' fate and save him from it he would have -- be it his will or against it -- since he didn’t imagine all _the Sight_ in the world could stop a force of God, whichever one it might be. Since he hadn’t been so compelled it was like as not that life had carried on as it ought to have in the first place.

A life for a life, there was justice in that. 

Somewhere. 

He had drunk himself blind in the next town and told himself it had nothing to do with the Sight, the fates, or stupid white boys and sad-eyed gunslingers with yellow ribbons around their wrist. He told himself lies.

Omar Creighton shook off the memory like a cramp in his leg. It didn’t bear thinking about too much; it just made him sad and tired. He was sad and tired enough all on his own. What those boys had done, and worse laughed about, was wrong. But he’d never forgiven himself for not saying something to the tired-faced gunslinger with the yellow ribbon.

That regret had haunted him every night for a year, then, out of the blue, it stopped.

Shortly after that happened he met Standing Bear; the two were connected he knew it in his bones.

But damned if he knew _how_.

They were a unique bunch but there was no mistaking the family resemblance between the girls. The woman with the shorn hair, Still Water, always watched him with the canny gaze of a mountain cat. She wasn’t like Tall Oak who held herself like royalty and spoke with a sharp tongue, intent on being obeyed. No. Still Water was something else altogether. She was a quiet sort, didn’t speak much unless speaking was called for, but there was a tempered fire under the skin. It burned through the ink dark of her eyes. A man would do well not to incite her anger.

In truth, she watched all men with a hard stare, all men save Standing Bear, and he didn’t blame her.

People could be a rotten bunch.

He’d been tumbleweeding across the far west long enough to know that for a fact.

He didn’t hold it against her nor go where he was not asked to venture; that would be just plain rude. Besides, an upset Cheyenne woman was liable to leave him with another scar to beautify his already rugged features. No. He figured he could do without anymore and stayed well away from where he suspected they were living. Standing Bear, being a smart enough man, well, he would have taken the natural cave that was up there and used that to keep out the worst of the rains. If he squinted he could make out the outline of the cave they were using to keep off the damp; it was a good choice. 

Smart, too.

And that was something Standing Bear had plenty enough of he’d learned, him and the women both.

There was no easy approach to their camp without being spotted unless a person was able to walk like a shadow in the trees and not be seen, or smelled, or heard. That damned Indian had the ears of a wolf. It wasn’t much that got past him. He could move like a lean shadow across the land leaving fewer prints than one of those domesticated house cats on gravel. Hunting with a Cheyenne was always a real pleasure, they knew the land -- were in tune with it or some shit -- in ways that even the most experienced hunter could come to envy. 

Hell, _he_ had plenty of envy, not that he’d say as much. 

A man had his pride. 

He’d learned a few tricks along the way, though, and was grateful. Still, soon as he’d met the man he’d known, in his gut, in his _head_ , which never shut about things he didn’t want or need to know. Standing Bear was one of the _twice-born_ . Omar had never met a twice-born such as him, and he’d met all sorts including a baker's dozen of these kinds of people in _Boston_ , _Arizona_ , and the hoity-toity _New York_. And now? In the Great Plains of _Wyoming_.

A real redman, just like all the fancy newspapers toted. 

Except the news liked to omit certain details when they did those headlines of theirs. About how the Indians did trade the same as any other white man, had families, same as any other white man. Not that anyone cared about that, it wasn’t good for the army politics to have too many Indian sympathizers among the people back home or those looking to claim a piece of the west if they planned to carry on breaking treaties and stealing lands.

Omar knew, in the end, it would come down to three things for the settlers: Indian skins were dark, their language too different. And, this was the criminal offense, their spiritual and world view was too much, too _strange_ to the common man. The _fire and brimstone_ preachers he’d seen popping across the west didn’t help none either. Making folks more suited to plowing and stacking hay get to thinking about immortal souls was a chancy business. Made them believe it might be _their_ business to bring others to the knees of their God -- willing or not. Maybe it was _the Sight_ , or maybe his own damn intuition, but Omar knew what he knew and there was no _unknowing_ it. Omar just knew it. In the way he knew most other uncanny _\-- unasked --_ things that the land would be bathed in blood before the conflict staggered to a halt. History would remember these times.

Oh yes, it would not be forgotten. The memories of the people were long. 

Omar kept whistling and he kept walking but his tune wasn’t as merry as it had been as his thoughts became mired in the bits and pieces _the Sight_ had cursed him with. He’d been one of the first to leave his family for a reason other than creature hunting and he’d seen up close the ways the world was changing. It wasn’t altogether pleasant, either. Civilization came with its own kind of price. He left home when it became so as a man couldn’t take a walk from his house without bumping into his neighbor. It wasn’t for him. The west was an untamed land, wide open and untouched. But when the settlers and the missionaries and the working folk set forth getting up off their covered wagons they were looking to tame the land under their feet. 

He could see the hunger in their eyes at the challenge. He didn’t mind that so much, every man had his hobbies and that lust for action. Ack! So what if some took to saving souls from eternal damnation?

It was the method and not the intent that he minded. Perhaps these missionaries were like the Spanish conquistadors of antiquity, believing that the land would only be wholly theirs if they could tame it, bring it into the fold of their God. 

People like Standing Bear, Dancing Fawn, Tall Oak, and Still Water? They weren’t the _taming_ kind. Independent sorts like Dancing Fawn and her haughty _Of The Wind_ lived better when they lived free. Damned if he’d never met a more haughty horse than that damned red stallion of hers either. They didn’t take to the bit and the bridle. The way he saw it the Cheyenne might not have a God, like the Christians.

But they had a way of life that suited them and it wasn’t a bad one. 

There were times, oh were their times, when he hated this cursed _Knowing_ that came upon him. It would be better not to know what couldn’t be changed. There were times when he chanced to look at Standing Bear, and he didn’t know who he was. He didn’t like the feeling it left him with; like he wasn’t looking at a man at all but something _Other_. Omar sometimes saw a brown wolf, a black bear, or a common prairie wolf, in his place. It just plain didn’t make sense. And others, well, sometimes he had a shadow fall all across his body like a river of black.

Mostly, thankfully, he was just Standing Bear. 

He didn’t like thinking Standing Bear might be something Other. It made his skin feel tight and shriveled. Fine hairs prickling at the idea of Standing Bear sharing the fate suffered by the Others his brothers had hunted and slain. Shit, _he’d_ hunted and slain Others, some he’d learned had been completely innocent of murder. 

Good ol’ party line: _if it ain’t human, kill it._

His family _killed_ Others; it began with a dead wife and blood oath that became a family inheritance. Some boys got their Great Grand Daddys shiny silver watch. Creighton boys got _the Sight_ if they were unlucky, and the key to the _Baldur Library_.

It was named for the first Creighton to slay what they had decided to call Others: the _Vampirio’s_ , _Wolfkind_ , and _Bennu’s_. Last he checked Standing Bear wasn't any kind of fire-bird, blood-drinker, or wolf, which left...a lot.

Omar forcefully rubbed at his beard, staring into the creek that ran through the Forest Wood. It really was getting to be a bit much. 

_What the hell does it matter what he is? It doesn’t that’s what -- I left._ _I Goddamn left and I don’t aim to go back._ _Goddamn bunch of murdering bastards._

Standing Bear had never done him any harm, nor anyone else that he could tell, and right now he was the only protector those three women had. Fierce as they were, they were women. This wasn’t a place to be a woman alone. So long as they had Standing Bear people were likely to think twice about any bad deeds. The law, often as not, didn’t give a damn what happened to people if they were Indian.

_Whatever Standing Bear might be is between him and his God, or Gods, whatever. And none of my business. He’s been good to me._

It didn’t matter if he was some kind of _Other._ To Omar he was just the good looking Cheyenne fella that more than a few white girls kept glancing at when their respective husbands and fathers weren’t watching so closely.

Namely, Lisa Hallet, Kat Young, and Janett Goode. Oh yes. They’d noticed Standing Bear, and he’d noticed _them_ noticing. 

And why not? The man was passingly handsome he reckoned and a far sight better looking than _Fin the Stable Boy_ with the gimp leg and buck teeth or the pimple-faced _Dirk_ still growing into his scrawny-frame. Tate was alright as far as his fine, pretty face was concerned but his soul was rotted through, thoroughly consigned to hell, that was for certain. 

It was not a great mystery that they might _look_ , but he didn’t like it either way. He had been in and out of _RiverStone_ to be wary of those three ladies, they were bonneted and bedecked _wild cats_. 

If they got an idea in their head, not even their daddy’s belt could do much to change it. 

_Hell, at least Standing Bear doesn’t so much as glance their way without cause_. _That ought to keep him out of trouble for a while._

Omar knew full well some in town were likely to go on offense at an innocent glance on account of him being Cheyenne. 

Omar shook his head, scratching at his beard. It was time for a trim, it got any longer and he’d look like one of those long-bearded dwarfs in his father's books: short and stocky, with dark-tanned skin. He’d rather not end looking more, rather than less, like the swarthy creatures. His beard had seen it’s last day, it was time to see a man about a pair of shears, or the barber if Mr. Wilsons' hands were steady after their all-nighter at _Lil’ Diamonds Saloon_. How he made his way out here without cracking his head open he surely did not know. Omar said a quick prayer to Him as he walked.

It was _Standing Bear_ who’d saved his whiskey-soaked hide, of that he had no doubt, but there was every chance that he had been put in his path, too. People with destinies, like the Reborn, had the habit of being where they were needed. Omar didn’t know what the man's destiny might be, but he didn’t think it had much to do with dreary little _RiverStone_ and his drunken shenanigans. As said dreary little town came into view he wondered why they had crossed paths. Had that been destiny, too? Or chance. It didn’t matter, in the end. It had happened. And here he was, trying to give the man a way out of this little town, it was far too small for someone who had the red strings of fates tied around their right wrist. 

Chief Walking Sacred could lead them to something better. 

In truth, Omar didn’t like the way Gunslinger Tate’s eyes followed the youngest girl. She was a right sight for sore eyes, pretty as a Georgian peach. But she wasn’t meant for the hot-eyed Tates of the world, that one. There was too much wanting in that boy for it to lead to anything good. There’d be trouble, they stayed on long enough.

In a town where the men outnumbered the women two to one, well, things happened -- bad things. 

He’d seen it before, he didn’t want to see it again.

“Standing Bear won’t let her come to harm, he watches that one like a hawk,” Omar muttered to himself. It eased the prickle of hairs at the back of his neck to tell himself these things, to lessen the worry that came upon him quite suddenly. 

“Yes, she is quite safe for now,” he repeated, and his old, tired, muscles relaxed. For now, she was quite safe ensconced in her hideaway with her sisters and watchful protector, Standing Bear. Hell, her damned horse had given him the stink eye when they’d passed in the street...Or had that just been too much drink and not enough food bewildering his mind again?

Omar sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. _The Sight_ had lain dormant for the better part of three winters until he’d met a certain Indian. And now the dreaming was back? Creighton’s didn’t believe in coincidence. They believed in Fate meddling with mortals. When he had lain in the dark, snug, and warmer than he deserved, he had dreamed odd dreams.

And he was trained enough to know drunk odd, from _the Sight_ odd. 

_The sun rose over the horizon painting the landscape in a haze of pink-gold haze; watching this was a hard-faced man atop a horse touched by fire. It was no beauty to look at, but there was spirit in its dark eyes that had not dwindled. They were a matched pair, the man and his horse. The man had a deep, gouging scar, it was discolored and twisted down his back like a serpent twisting into a coil. He looked like every other cowboy and cowpoke he’d ever ridden with or past, but he wasn’t._

_He was a twice-born, for sure._

_A special kind, too._

_Marked with the red ribbon of fate. It was worn, faded, but ever-present. It could mean destiny. It might even mean love. It was hard to tell the two apart, he’d lacked the patience to learn all the mysteries of the Sight. But, it was said Launcelot had borne such a ribbon around his left and his right wrist. Forever tugged in opposite directions, to his king. And to his Queen. The cowboy's ribbon was thick, braided, two strands twined into one, bound to his right arm. There was an owl perched on the hindquarters of the fire horse, but the grass below its hooves was so green that it seemed unnatural._

_This one would not know the torment of the First Knight._

_He was a man out of time, the same way Standing Bear was, he straddled the days that were and what might still be. The man turned in the saddle, looking right through him. Omar tried to turn, to see what he saw that made that hard, worry-lined face soften just the slightest bit. The cowboy's mouth ticked up in a tiny smile._

_“Henry?” he said._

_Omar blinked, caught between the Sight and the waking world. He didn’t know any Henry’s. He had half expected an altogether different name to spill out of that thin-lipped mouth. Hell if he knew why, though._

_Standing Bear had never struck him as, well, the thought had not occurred to him that he might...prefer less feminine company._ _Nothing about that cowboy was soft that was certain, his face was lined and time-worn, his hands rough with callouses. But there was something that flickered in his eyes. A gentleness hidden by stubborn pride and a genuine desire to help people buried in a deep silence._

_‘Well damn,’ he’d thought, half conscious, half out of his mind. He’d never considered Standing Bear might be...Not before that moment, anyways, his breath withheld in his lungs as he waited._

_‘Huh. Funny little thing, life.’_

_The cowboy with his hard face and the scarred horse was gone and he never saw the face that made the man smile. He held on to the dream, focusing all his will on trying to see through the thick darkness, but he couldn’t._

_A veil had fallen._

_Confusion_ _hit him in the chest._ _Was it a sign, a bad omen for the cowboy and this Henry? Or something else that blocked the path that led between them? Omar had blinked and the Sight was gone from his mind, a slate wiped clean, and he fell into a deep sleep._

It hadn’t made much sense except for one thing. That gunslinger with the yellow ribbon had been a _twice-born_ . The man in his dream on the fire-touched horse was the same man he’d seen across the _Luck Be A Lady Saloon_. 

And somehow that man was connected to Standing Bear. 

“It just isn’t for me to know I suppose,” Omar breathed into the hush that had fallen as he remembered the dream gifted to him by _the Sight_. It was a useless thing; more often than not he never saw the whole picture.

Only pieces.

_Ah, hell, my head hurts from all this spinning_ , Omar mused.

Who’d of thought? He found one, and he wasn’t even looking. Standing Bear was one of the Reborn, as his brothers liked to call them, but there was something wrong. It was in the way the world turned around him, as though time no longer touched him the same as it did the rest of the crowd. He’d never met a reborn that had such an effect. If he looked at the man with his Sight, using his double vision, he felt the slow, marching drag of time stretching out into something near-to infinite.

What’s more, Standing Bear had no clue about his twice-born status! Each of those men and women he’d met had an inkling of what -- _of whom_ \-- they were. Generally, they were people with things left undone, great love waiting, usually. 

Omar smiled wistfully; his family had the full record of a few ancient Reborn's: Launcelot, Gwenyfer, and Arthur, Achilles, and Patroclus had been his favorite records in _The True and Accurate History of Reincarnation_ . A dusty old time buried under his brothers _Bestiary of Monsters_ and Escalus's lost, and now found but hidden, accounts of _Night Stalkers_. 

As a boy, he'd hidden away in the cupboard below the staircase with a candle to read about those strange, interesting people, and their strange complicated lives. The romance of it had swept him up, though he'd never dared tell his brothers, or get caught. He learned to be sneaky at an early age.

A sticky lovers triangle that only went right once, it ended in tears, too. All three burned at the stake for perversion, or so the story went. 

The way he figured it, one life wasn’t enough, when they died and were put in the earth the land tangled their spirits in its spider web and lobbed them back -- sooner or later.

His brothers hated Reborns, those favored by Gaia and touched with destiny. Why them, and not the Creighton's? It was they who hunted the things that haunted the shadows that killed in light of the full moon and turned to cannibalism in harsh winter months. Or so his brothers liked to bitch and whine to their father who grunted and said nothing but this: “do your duty as a Creighton, kill the dark creatures,” or, and this was his _favorite_ , “make your ancestors proud.”

Omar was a Creighton. Born from a long line of Creighton's, and there had never been a twice-born like Standing Bear. A man who had passed his 17th _and_ his 27th winter without experiencing _the Knowing_ that came to Reborns when past lives made themselves known. Yeah. The damn Indian was one of them and he didn’t know it. Omar considered laying it out for him, but he quite liked the man, dammit! No one stuck around with a _crazy_ drunk for long. And that was what happened whenever he tried to meddle.

That, or he got railroaded out of town as a devil worshipper for knowing things he shouldn't be caught knowing. If he was drunk no one cared that he raved about the General Store going up in a fiery blaze, he was Cassandra, shouting into the wind. No one listened, but he could console himself with the thought that he tried.

It wasn't his problem the masses didn't listen that way.

Omar whistled as he walked hoping that Standing Bear didn’t have the power to read minds, too. He never did know with Reborns, they were always so...different. His goose was cooked if Standing Bear could in fact pluck his thoughts from thin-air. But, he supposed, he was safe from that when nothing happened. He stumbled now and again as his body burned through the alcohol leaving him with a mighty headache. 

_Hell, he might even be on his third remaking_ , Omar grouched.

The strange thing was he’d never met a Reborn who didn’t know their heritage. Shit. He’d never met a reborn that had such a murky haze around their aura either. Like somewhere in the ether something, between his last death and remaking something had gone terribly wrong.

Some days it was more indigo, peppered with pinpricks of light, like the night sky. Others, it was black as coal dust on a miners hands. But what did he know? He only had a touch of the Sight, not like his brothers. 

It was a damn inconvenience, too. 

There was something different about Standing Bear, that was certain, but he decided it wasn’t his business unless the settlers came running with pitchforks and a torch like in the olden days when a vampire went on a killing spree. He didn’t imagine that was going to happen so it was fine. It didn’t matter. Though, he was damn curious now that he knew what he _didn’t_ know. 

Omar walked into town silent as a graveyard come midnight on a full moon; his breath sighed out of his lungs like a blustery east wind. All his wondering and thinking and he still hadn’t made heads or tails of anything but the fact that Standing Bear was _twice-born_ , likely didn’t know it, and something decidedly _Other_.

He was a Creighton and as a rule Creighton’s helped _Reborns_ whether they liked it or not. Even his two asshole brothers would have done what they could to keep the Fates happy. Old Great Grand Daddy would say it was his _duty_ but that wasn’t why he gave a damn. Standing Bear and those girls were good people. But he was a drunk and the little Sight he had was useless as a three legged donkey.

Still he was Goddamned _Creighton_ there must be something he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> A few explanations of the elements mentioned in Chapter 15. This is "filler" in a way, explaining backdrop for "canon" characters. Sorry? 😅
> 
> Omar calls Kiwidinok, “Of The Wind,” which is meant to be the “English” translation of the red stallion's name. This was done to indicate Omar Creighton has had dealings and trades with Native Americans [Indians] before and frequently. 
> 
> The Sight: Omar has dreams that are sometimes foretellings, but they are almost always wrapped in mystery to such an extent that he never really knows what the dreams signify. However, sometimes he also has “The Knowing.”
> 
> The Knowing: Omar, also, can sometimes see things, places, or people, and knows what events are going to occur to them or in their lives. It’s a deep intuitive flash of understanding for him. When “the Knowing” happens, it is as clear to him as 2+2=4. Without intervention, and sometimes even with intervention, these things will happen. Omar’s “Knowing” is what shows him that someday “Indian scalping will become a legal transaction” this is something that adds to his decision to not warn the “youngster” who intentionally sickened a Shoshone tribe.
> 
> The Twice-Born, also referred to as “reborn”: These are people that essentially reincarnate spiritually into another body after death. Creighton's, a family of supernatural hunters, speculate that they are favored by the God’s. They are bitter that a “Creighton” has never been marked as a “twice born.” 
> 
> What does being “twice-born” have to do with Henry Standing Bear and “Son of the Skinwalker” a person might ask? How important is that to Book 1? Good question. Do I know the answer?
> 
> Perhaps. ;)
> 
> Sources:
> 
> https: //historycollection.com/governments-used-to-pay-for-native-american-scalps-which-made-scalping-a-booming-business/2/
> 
> https: //sites.google.com/site/cpapamh3441/home/spanish-attempts-at-conversion


	16. A Series of Collected Events: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was still 1725, winter. Tall Oak, finally, speaks her mind. Dancing Fawn extended the hand of trust, her strong belief in Standing Bear meaning more than he could ever say.

#  _**RiverStone, Wyoming: Winter 1725** _

#  _**Unbreakable Bonds** _

Omar Creighton meant well. He trusted that there was no trap lying in wait but Standing Bear hesitated to join Dancing Fawn, Tall Oak, and Still Water on their journey into town to meet with this Chief Walking Sacred. If this man had sufficient knowledge of his own, or a Medicine Man among his number, they would unearth his secret. That would bore ill for him _and_ the women. Tall Oak would not be dissuaded from going, though her sisters were more hesitant to leap into this new situation. They, at least, had spared some thought for his hesitation.

This did not surprise him, the youngest daughter of Hawk Woman had more care for his life and well-being than the tall, rigid woman, who still resented him. For not dying, perhaps? For becoming a skinwalker? Or maybe it was only that she reflected her own guilt to him, and he took it without complaint.

He could bear it well enough. He supposed he ought to be glad that she had maintained the peace for this long.

Tall Oak tapped her foot against the ground, her arms sternly folded across her chest, she was an imposing woman, and only a year ago he would have been happy to jump to her tune. But not today. His patience with her attitude had begun to wear thin. “Is there something you wish to say, Tall Okay? If so speak it, and cease staring, unless I have spouted another head?” he inquired, his words succinct and purposefully sharp. 

“Will you go with us to _RiverStone_? Or will you remain behind and mind the camp like the old women?” Tall Oak demanded.

Still Water shook at her arm. “Hush sister! What has come over you?” she asked, feeling her brow as if she were fevered and sickly. Tall Oak pushed her away with such force that Still Water stumbled back, landing hard on his side.

Standing Bear rose to his feet in a slow fluid glide, he stepped between the two women and offered the fallen woman his hand. 

Still Water accepted, and he pulled her back to her feet. Standing Bear observed the two women for a moment before speaking: Tall Oak rigid as a granite mountain and Still Water with her unshakable calmness, so like her mother was she that he all but saw the shadow of Hawk Woman at overlaying her image. 

“She is not sick, Still Water. Tall Oak finally speaks her mind. You have begun, now say what you will.”

Tall Oak grimaced, her eyes skating over, and through him. He wondered how he had not seen it before. Her disgust. 

“I am not little Dancing Fawn! Who is always thinking of her horses, who sees you as some mighty protector. I think only of the _abomination_ you have become. It disgusts me, you -- you disgust me, _yee naagloshii_!” she snapped.

“I can no longer see the boy mother sheltered by the vampire, I can no longer see the young brave who loved Thunder Boy. Only what you have become, you are no longer a son of Swift Coyote, Standing Bear.”

The woman’s harsh words cut as deep and hard as a knife thrust into his back, he could feel the breaking of his heart as it bled. But none of this he let cross his face. He remained blank and unseen to their eyes. 

“Stop it! Stop!” Dancing Fawn shouted, growing alarmed. The horses who milled about grew restless, shifting and sidling, as their little master grew visibly distressed by the unfolding argument. He edged closer to her, but did not otherwise interfere in what they saw as human affairs. 

“What has Standing Bear done wrong, that you say these things now? Who has kept us fed and safe?” Dancing Fawn insisted her hands spread out as she tried to reason with her elder sister. But Tall Oak would not listen.

“He has become a skinwalker, you silly girl. That is a darkness not meant to be played with!” she shouted, her voice growing louder and angrier. Dancing Fawn frowned, looking between them in confusion. 

Tall Oak pursed her lips, speaking her last piece. “He killed his own mother! If he can do that as a half-blood what do we matter to him?” She stopped away, headed for town, alone. 

“That’s -- that’s not true! Standing Bear, tell her, it is not true!” Dancing Fawn demanded, imploring him with her wide frightened eyes. “Standing Bear?” she pleaded, her voice trailing off at what she discovered in his eyes.

Standing Bear turned his face away. He headed off alone; no more able to bear the look of confusion on Dancing Fawn’s face than to stab his own heart. Dancing Fawn called after him, repeatedly, but he did not return. He needed a place to think without watchful eyes. He found a secluded place among the rocks where none might find him and sat himself atop a flat topped rock staring blindly into the creek for many hours as his shoulder shook with violent force, his hands pressed over his face to hide his tears. 

Tall Oak was not wrong, that was what tore him to pieces. He _had_ killed his own mother. It was what had triggered the skinwalker blood curse. Kinslaying was a vile offence, and for good reason. Magic, cold and indifferent to human machinations, had no care for his logic or for his reasoning. Whether he meant good, or ill, it did not matter. He could still see her blood on his hands. Or that the memory tore at his heart like a rat gnawing at his bones. Dug deep below the skin where he might never be rid of it. 

A hand touched his shoulder. Standing Bear flung himself away, landing in an awkward crouch, lips peeled back in wordless snarl. He calmed as suddenly as the unpredictable winter rains. It was only little Dancing Fawn who bent to kneel at his side, her three horses trailing at her back in a comical line: the red, the white, and the ordinary brown. Kiwidinok snorted, tossed his head majestically and trotted to lip at the green sprig protruding from the white snow. The other two followed the stallion, scrounging for what there was to be found. 

He reigned in his swirling doubts, swiping angrily at his cheek, still damp from his crying. He did not want the young woman to see him crying like a child for his mother. Even if, perhaps, he was. 

“What is it? What is wrong?” he gruffly demanded. He heard her sharp intake of breath when she saw him. Perhaps she thought he never cried, because of what he was, or more simply, because he was a man. And now she knew. He was not without faults, deep cracks running to the core of his foundations. _Kin slayer, skinwalker, mother-killer_. These were things that he could be called.

He waited to see what she would say now. _There must be something wrong for her to seek out a skinwalker_ , his insidious doubts whispered in his ear. Why else would she have lowered herself to speak with such a creature.

What must she think of him now...

Dancing Fawn reached out her hand to his face, brushing aside the remnants of his own weakness with her small, dainty thumb. The salt of his tears clung to her bronzed skin but all she had for him was a small, trusting, smile. It trembled at the corners but it was more than he had expected. It was the first touch of kindness he had known since the change at _Black Canyon_. He remained still as stone and let her do as she would. For he trusted her. No matter what she might now think of him, it was rightly deserved. He _was_ a skinwalker.

“Are -- are your sisters well?” he quietly asked, folding her hand into his own and gently removing it from his face. It was then that he saw matching tear marks on her own innocent face and worry exploded in his chest. 

“Dancing Fawn, what do you cry for? Are you hurt?” he demanded, clinically examining her lithe form for physical wounds. He relaxed when he saw none and she quickly reassured him of her health. 

“Oh, no. I am not hurt, it is not like that,” she promised, her hand placed over her heart. “It pains me here to see you and my sister quarrel. I cannot unhear what Tall Oak has said, so explain it to me, Standing Bear?” she pleaded. 

Standing Bear exhaled, a deep sigh full of sadness and regret. He could not deny her this knowledge because she had had the courage to seek him out and ask. So he told her how it came to be that his mother preferred death to rape. He told Dancing Fawn with slow, halting words, how clever Swift Coyote had known that her death would buy his life. There were more solemn tears shed between them before Dancing Fawn and Standing Bear left that place by the rock and the river which sidled through the hidden cove like a great serpent. 

“So, what say you now Dancing Fawn, am I still to be trusted?” Standing Bear asked, as he took to his feet. Absently reaching down to pull the young girl along, too. She took his hand without hesitation.

Dancing Fawn raised her chin, defiant. “You are the master of your darkness, and what is darkness but something we all must face within our own hearts...Yours -- yours is merely a little more dangerous, I think.” 

She frowned, tapping his arm so that he was forced to turn and look towards her small, expectant face. It was set in determination. “You really must leave behind this -- this hate for your own self, it leads nowhere good. And you are good, Standing Bear.”

Standing Bear swallowed, emotions making his voice thick and rough. “You speak well, _axaa'éhéme_.”

“We should find Tall Oak before she gets into trouble with her sharp tongue in the town,” Dancing Fawn said, more than a little censure evident in the grim set of her shoulders. “She calls you evil one moment, and lashes her tongue in your face as though you are a campfire dog the next, there is much to be desired of her logic, _that_ is what I think.” 

Standing Bear snorted, amused with her indignation. “Do not be too angry with your sister,” he cautioned, unwilling to see a rift come between the sisters. He might have little reason to love Tall Oak, but she was family, as were her sisters, Dancing Fawn, and Still Water.

“She too is still grieving much, in her own way,” he murmured, and let the subject lie. No more needed to be said.

Still Water awaited their return, no doubt having predicted where her youngest sister would have slipped off to when given a moment's chance. She did not appear upset so Standing Bear did not imagine that she shared all of her sisters' views. Why else would she let Dancing Fawn chase after him alone? If she did not trust him, at least a little.

“Tall Oak blows like the wind, when the heat of her anger passes she will regret her rashness,” Still Water said, and no more than that was spoken on the matter. “Come, we will catch up with her in the town.”

Standing Bear was in no great rush to meet this Chief Walking Sacred, but with Tall Oak’s actions it had become unavoidable. It was not a good idea for a Indian woman to go into a white man's town alone.


	17. A Series of Collected Events: Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1725 (still) and there was a great deal of commotion in RiverStone when Standing Bear and his companions arrived. Is Chief Walking Sacred and his band the cause for unrest? Or is something else afoot?

#  _**Wyoming, RiverStone: Winter 1725** _

#  _Tall Oak, Where Art Thou?_

_RiverStone_ was rumbling with noise. He heard the commotion long before setting foot within the borders of town. It was a low hum of unrest, threaded with housewives whispering and young men chafing at the bit. To what purpose he did not know. Standing Bear said nothing of this to his two companions, for it was nothing more than a bad feeling, unfounded, and one he hoped was misplaced. _Let it be nothing but the usual chatter when too many people that are not white pass through town._ This was his sincerest prayer to the Great Creator.

Dancing Fawn clung to Kiwidinok back, very aware of the many eyes fixed on her and her red horse. More eyes than usual were fixed on her, which did not please Standing Bear overmuch who returned the looks in her stead with a cool detachment that set heads to turning and feet to awkward shuffling. Those who had paused, stopping to look, continued on their way back to their homes, their store, or their ranches out of town. 

He looked to his side. Dancing Fawn was still unused to their open staring and squirmed atop her mount, small hands tightening at the war bridle as their horses slowed to a canter. She shot him a look of wordless thanks at his interference. The corner of his mouth lifted, a shadows smile darting across his face, before he returned to scanning the town. He did take a second to admire the remarkable horsewoman Dancing Fawn was fast becoming. Her and her horses moved with one singular will. Though Dancing Fawn had seen the newest fashions at the small settlements scattered along their journey, the young woman remained firm on riding after the old style. The bridle was no more than a piece of rope with a small metal ring on each end, which was attached to reins, and a braided rawhide slide creates a loop in rope. For _better_ or _worse_ , she chose to let Kiwidinok leave his head free as he wished. 

No headstall for that one.

Standing Bear privately admitted to feeling hesitant about her bringing her fine horse along in the past but after three failed thrift attempts he did not even spare it a thought. Kiwidinok knew from where the best apples would be procured and it was not the men with grubby hands and greedy eyes who desired to break his spirit to the metal bit and bridle. The sisters, who had no bond that he could tell with their mounts, exchanged one for another as convenience allowed. Still Water had mounted her piebald pony. He required a strong will to lead, with a lesser one atop his back and he tended to turn and bite. What concerned Standing Bear was that he did not see Tall Oak’s usual mount, a sleek, chestnut horse with a speck of white at its forelock. 

Namid, _Star Dancer_ , was the secret name Dancing Fawn had given to her middle sister's horse. Namid and Oota Daun were liable to produce a foal come spring. First, however, he must find Tall Oak, and her missing horse, which seemed to be nowhere in sight.

He scanned the crowd, expanding his senses so that his eyes and his ears heard all the business of the town. Mr. Jennings, who was hushing his mistress as he slipped across the street to have lunch with his wife. Old Mrs. Dunn, who was loudly scolding her husband for being in his cups, again, and the odd quietness of Jett and Jedd at the saloon, it was well known that they were Doctor James Sully’s creatures. If a thing needed doing, they did it. Hired guns that did little without the doctors say so. They had never failed to notice his companions too much, their eyes following their steps with a hunger for what would never be desired by both parties. Then, paused outside the _General Store_ his eyes were inevitably drawn to the Chief. He knew him by the way he stood out from the rest, the solemnity of his expression and the sharp intelligence that flared behind his eyes, which widened a fraction before narrowing to cat-like slits as they lighted on him.

_So, this is Walking Sacred, I might have liked him in another life._ Standing Bear withstood the hard gaze which flicked over him, full of suspicion and contemptuous dislike. The dislike of a stranger was easier to bear than that of Tall Oak. He cared about her, whether he wished for it or not. She and her two sisters were all that remained of his family. For that he would withstand her sharp tongue with patience. 

There was no question that either the chief had been informed, _Tall Oak_ , or had decided for himself the nature of Standing Bear. If this was the clan she wished to join with it made sense that she offered something of value, information, goods perhaps. Her horses, after all, were hers to give or to keep as she willed. It was for this reason that he had his secret name, one that no one would ever know. 

The only man who had known it, Lame Bull, was dead.

_Skinwalker._

The strong-jawed chieftain did not say it aloud but it was there all the same, the wedge driven between. One there was not surmounting. He was tall and straight backed like a towering oak, or a mountain peak thrust into the endless sky, neither one was known for bending their backs against their own will. Standing Bear did not suppose he had much chance towards the changing of that steely resolve. 

Did he have a fiery brand across his forehead that so declared him? He had not thought this to be so but it was rare that other Indians did not sense something of the differentness that resided within him. Even Omar Creighton, he suspected, knew something more than he was willing to openly broach in casual conversation. He saw something unreadable skate across the other man's features when he did not think Standing Bear was looking. But he was not blind. Having grown into manhood as he had, he had grown accustomed to it, and removed any self-blinders another might have imposed. Omar’s glancing was not so terrible; but it was a mystery he would have answered.

Eventually.

Still Water went forward first, speaking with the women who walked to meet her, clasping hands and whispering back and forth. Their female voices rising and lowering like the continuous babble of the brook which wound through the heart of their hide away, _Ma'tää'e_ , was not unpleasant. Their glances did more offence. He did not need to hear to know what it was that they said, and how Still Water replied.

_Is it true?_

_It is true._

She would not lie to them. Lying would do no good when the truth was already broken open like a turtle from its shell. Perhaps, in time, he would learn to better conceal this particular truth. But that time was not _now_.

He remained at a tactful distance, he did not come here seeking trouble. Let the other man, and any others who wished, come to him if they wanted to speak. 

He searched the crowds, curious if Omar was still in town, or out checking his traplines but his friend was nowhere about. His horse, called _Horse_ , was not even tethered to the saloon. Only the old white doctor Mr. Sully who leaned harder on his stick than was normal; worry lines were gouged deeper into his face this afternoon. Mr. Sully kept looking in his direction and then away, his chest puffing as if he had something to say, before he expelled it in one long breath. There was no love lost between them, everyone with ears knew what Mr. Sully thought of his red neighbors. Which made it all the more curious that it looked as if he wanted to speak with him. 

Standing Bear edged away from the small crowd speaking and trading at the General Store, uncaring about Walking Sacred and his stare digging lines into his back. _Let him stare as he likes_ , Standing Bear decided. Something was wrong here, and it had nothing to do with blood curses. He took a chance and slowly approached Mr. Sully, never breaking stride until he was closer than the man ever tolerated any who was not of the _superior-genus_. 

“Mr. Sully,” Standing Bear said, opening the way for conversation. The other white man would not do it so he must. The old man grit his teeth, running a withered hand through his thinking, gay-white, hair. “Listen, it’s not my fault, damned fool took a fancy into his head and just plumb wouldn’t listen to a word edgewise.” This was what he said and Standing Bear stiffened, his muscles tensed as he waited for the rest to spill out. 

It would not be good; the tense stance of the man, his hand resting at his hip where he wore a rusted, well tooled, 41. Colt in a fancy belt said the old man was concerned about how his news would be received. 

Standing bear took not of the holster and the weapon, it was incongruous, the lack of care put to the weapon that the well burnished belt holstered. He did not understand this waste -- letting a good weapon fall to disrepair yet meticulously maintaining the appearance. If he had a good bow he took pains to keep it in working order. If he had a good rifle, _Thunder Boy’s rifle_ , he did not let it become rusted and useless. 

He said nothing, remaining implacable.

“I’m no land worshipper, but I don’t condone the kidnapping of women folk. Okay? You got to believe that, Standing Bear.”

He blinked, mutely shocked that the man even knew his name. “Your man kidnapped Tall Oak?” Standing Bear demanded. He swung away front he old man lest he strike him for wasting time for letting this happen. “Where would he take her, tell me this, and I will not hold you to account whatever may come.”

It was a good deal, the only one the old doctor would receive. Still Water might yet skin the man alive, with blunt objects, if anything happened to her sister. The old man, insulted at being threatened _\-- warned --_ scowled, his face splotching in ugly shades of red at the cheek and neck. 

“You can’t speak to me like that, you -- you--”

Standing Bear snarled, his expression black with worry. “Be silent, old man, if you know something, this is the time for sharing it.”

“Laurence, he’s the idjit who stole your woman, he found a hide-away three miles out of town, there’s a small cabin, abandoned overlooking _Sparrow Creek_. He’ll take her there,” the old man paused, adding for pure spite. “It had a bed, he’ll do what most men who’ve been without a woman for too long do.”

“If he does then I will hold you to account, he is your man, I cannot believe he acted of his own will. He has none but yours.”

“Think what you wish, you dirty heathen!” Mr. Sully exclaimed. “You think I want more half-bloods running around, polluting the bloodlines? No, I’d rather seen him, and the squaw, dead.”

Standing Bear believed him, and Dancing Fawn who had snuck behind in his shadow screeched, angry as a wild cat. He held her back by the shoulders and shook her hard enough that her head shook from the force. He did not have time for gentler means. 

“Stop!” he said, his voice loud and sharp. She was unaccustomed to loudness from him and obeyed instantly, her struggles ceased in the face of his own growing fury. He had lost more than enough. A single life more was not to be tolerated.

“Go back with your sister, remain with this new tribe until I return with Tall Oak.” Standing Bear noticed how a few of the young braves patted Kiwidinok's heaving flanks, admiringly, and that their eyes were not reserved for her horse alone. “You will not be cast out I think.”

Dancing Fawn, meek as a child, did as he bid her. If she knew what might be crossing the mind of the young men of the tribe it did not show on her face. 

“If she comes to harm we will speak again,” Standing Bear said to Mr. Sully, low-toned and silky as death. The old doctor stammered but he did not wait to see what he said in return. It did not matter. 

Finding Tall Oak took precedence over an old man's fearful jawing. He could smell the fear rolling off of him in waves, too. It had been rash to speak so, but he did not regret it. 

He whistled and his grey mare, _Thunder Heart_ , pounded towards him and no sooner had she sidled to a stop that he leaped atop her back. He squeezed his legs around her flanks and she was off like a shot. He did not ask for help nor did he need it. One lone white man was hardly a match for him even before the change. 

Thunder Heart moved fast, the wind lashing against his face as her hooves danced across the open prairie. He gave her lead to run as fast as she might until he was beyond sight of the town. There was a difference between _knowing_ what he was and _seeing_ it. Tracking was best done by foot, and as _brown wolf_ he could match the speed of Thunder Heart. As brown wolf he could beat the speeds of even the fastest, including spirited Kiwidinok. 

Standing Bear shed his clothes standing naked in the prairie for a moment as he let the power of the Medicine Bag wash through his body; the change came fast as bone and flesh contorted. It did not hurt but there was a strange tingle that pervaded his sense, his body, when he and the brown wolf merged into one being with one driving will. 

_Find Tall Oak._

When it was done he stood on all four, his wolf-ears flicking forward and back listening to the soft murmurs of the wind and what news it carried forth, his nose uplifted to scent the air. He knew the scent of Tall Oak: _bitterroot_ , _salt_ , and traces of _jasmine_ she rubbed in her long, crow-black hair. It was his wolf-eyes that served him best this time, so keen that he could see beyond the human range. The world was alive with shades of color, even in the midst of a deep winter. _RiverStone_ did not see much in the way of wagons and rouge wanderers, finding recent horse tracks and refuse was easily done. He picked up Laurence's trail and kept it for long miles. Halfway to where he suspected the cabin to be he made an unexpected, startling, discovery. 

Omar Creighton. The man rode the same trail, his eyes fixed on the same tracks he was following. It was not long before he noticed the brown wolf racing along the trail beside his own horse. Standing Bear did not know how they both came to be here but he did not have time for subterfuge. _What would be would be._ He maintained his course giving Omar room enough that he need not feel concerned about the sudden appearance of a brown wolf.

“What in the hell…” Omar cursed, his eyes burrowing into him. As if he could see, really see, _him_. “Jumping Jesus, what is going on here.”

The brow coated wolf seemed to side-eye him, it neither grinned nor growled, merely looking with its steady unblinking gaze before the moment snapped and he was left staring after it in shock as his horse was outmatched. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered urging Horse on. But it was no use trying to keep up. The brown wolf was going to leave him in the dust and if it wasn’t so strange and the situation so serious he would have laughed.

Omar did not halt his horse nor did he ignore the brown wolf. The rider did not behave as though he were just any lone wolf behaving erratically. 

Standing Bear took a moment to feel relieved that the man did not mistake him for rabid and shoot at him. It would prove a needless diversion. With his strong wolf-limbs invigorated with strange magic and the hunt he outpaced Omar, eventually leaving him and his sturdy horse in the dust. 

They would cross paths again he knew. But first he would deal with the kidnapper, and then he could see what was to be salvaged of his friendship with the white man. And that was what Omar Creighton was to him. A friend. Something inside him sank a little, a jarring tug within his chest, the last flutter of a dying bird resigned to what came next. It did not seem probable that Creighton would remain so once the truth had had its say. 

The wind whispered to him, a soft familiar murmur, the voice of a dead loved one speaking to his heart. _What would be would be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sources:_
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Bitterroot 
> 
> https://www.yesmagazine.org/environment/2020/04/27/native-horses-indigenous- history/
> 
> https://westernhorseman.com/horsemanship/neu-perspectives/riding-in-a-war- bridle/

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: Here is the supernatural time-line jumping Old West passing into the Modern era Longmire fiction no one asked for. I tried my hand at researching however I apologize for all mistakes, errors and inaccuracies. 
> 
> The bones of this grand idea were gifted to me by _Piccola_Poe_ who was kind enough to let me run wild with it once it passed hands.
> 
> This is a work in progress...
> 
> A _few_ sources I read:
> 
> Frasure, C. (2020, June 25). Urban Legends: The Navajo Skinwalker. Retrieved August 23, 2020. https: //exemplore. com/cryptids/Urban-Legends-The-Navajo-Skinwalker
> 
> Palace, S. (2020, July 07). Why the Navajo Skinwalker is the Most Terrifying Native American Legend. Retrieved August 23, 2020. https: //www.thevintagenews. com/2020/03/15/navajo-skinwalker /
> 
> Kathy & Dave Alexander. Navajo Skinwalker -- Witches of the Southwest. Legends of America. Retrieved August 23, 2020. https: //www.legendsofamerica. com/navajo-skinwalkers /
> 
> How Native American Women Gave Birth. (n.d.). Retrieved August 24, 2020. http: //www.shermanindianmuseum.org/how-native-american-women-gave-birth. html
> 
> Deelah, Cole. If You Lay Down, The Baby Will Never Come Out. An Overview of Traditional Native American Birth Practices. http: //pathwaystofamilywellness. org/pdf/Sustainable-Community/if-you-lay-down-the-baby-will-never-come-out. pdf
> 
> Family Values Hierarchies and Beliefs - Native American Culture. (n.d.). Retrieved August 24, 2020. https: //sites.google.com /site/thecultureofnativeamericans/family-values-hierarchys-and-beliefs
> 
> “The Wendigo Legend.” Cannibal Spirit of the North, www. gods-and-monsters.com/wendigo-legend. html.
> 
> Dube, Ryan. “Navajo Witchcraft.” LoveToKnow, LoveToKnow Corp, paranormal. lovetoknow.com/ Navajo_Witchcraft.
> 
> http: //www. cheyennelanguage. org/
> 
> http: // www.cheyennelanguage.org/words/animals/animals. htm


End file.
